


I promise I won’t fall in love

by ylc



Series: Fake relationship AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (because they're both so silly), (or at least he tries), (or my attempts of humor anyway), A little angst, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Greg and Mycroft are in their twenties, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft is a good brother, Sherlock is a good brother, Sherlock is a teenager, Some Humor, the Holmes parents were bad parents and nothing will convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-08-07 16:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16411751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: After his parents’ passing, Mycroft Holmes is faced with a difficult decision. As stated in his parents’ will, he either has to marry or lose his brother’s custody.Finding himself an spouse isn’t the difficult part.Not giving his actual feelings away is a little more difficult.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve said a hundred times before I lack any self control when it comes to starting new WIPs, so I’m not going to bore you with that :P This story idea came to me a while ago and I’ve been turning it inside my head; I had actually already written down a couple of chapters, but it was going in a too angsty direction that I didn’t care for so… well.  
> But, inspiration finally striked and here’s the first chapter! It’s short, but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway ;)

“I’m sorry, I don’t-- did you-- have you just asked me to marry you?”

Mycroft holds back a sigh, telling himself patience is key in this particular endeavour. His companion is reacting much better than he predicted anyway, and he supposes this is a very rational  _ calm  _ response to his question.

“Yes,” he says simply, nodding once for good measure. His companion just stares at him, blinking owlishly.

“Alright,” the other man says after a brief pause and Mycroft can’t help the smile that comes unbidden to his lips: things are going much better than he expected. “But why?” he adds after a beat. “I’m assuming it’s not because you’re madly in love with me,” he says, with a small self deprecating smile.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. It baffles him how blind his companion seems to be to his own attractiveness: can’t he honestly see he’s not only unfairly handsome, but also good and kind? Who could resist such combination?

To be fair however, that’s not the reason why Mycroft is asking. “My parents passed away last saturday. A car accident,” he explains and the other man opens his mouth, probably to offer his condolences, which are unwanted and unnecessary, so he hurries to carry on. “Their will stated I was to inherit the family’s money and properties, along with my brother’s custody, but only if I met certain…  _ requirements _ .” He scrunches his nose in displeasure, remembering his short meeting with his parents’ lawyer. 

“Oh,” his companion says softly. “So it’s about your inheritance.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes once more. “I couldn’t care less for my parents’ money,” he says annoyedly. “What’s more, I would have renounced to it all, but then my brother’s custody would go to dear Aunt Elise, who’s currently living in Paris.” He shakes his head dejectedly. “That’d be a disaster in so many levels, I don’t even want to think about it.”

A long pause follows. “So you… need to marry?” his companion asks after a beat. “I mean, it sounds a little… I’m sure I’ve seen that plot in several romantic comedies, but I didn’t think it happened in real life.”

Mycroft sighs. If only. “My parents’ lawyer assures me it’s all perfectly legal. Apparently, there’s nothing against establishing certain conditions for someone to get an inheritance.” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s amazing, my parents commitment to dictating the way I live my life, even beyond the grave.” He shakes his head, at lost of what else he can possibly say. “I’m truly sorry, Gregory. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t so important and in all honesty… you’re the only person I trust enough for this.”

“I know,” the other man replies softly, avoiding his eyes. “I… I’ll help you, of course,” he adds, smiling, although it doesn’t really reach his eyes. “What are friends for, after all?” his tone is light and playful, but Mycroft can tell there’s something bothering him.

Understandable, really. “I’m not expecting anything from you,” he hurries to reassure him, reaching for his companion’s arm but retrieving his hand when the other jumps a little. “It’d be just-- I just need you to sign the papers. You don’t even have to live with me, let alone--” he blushes profusely, horrified by his own thoughts. It’s true ever since they met, Gregory Lestrade has protagonized several late night fantasies, but Mycroft would never use such a lowly scheme to get the man in bed with him.

“Mycroft, relax,” his companion says, smiling softly, a light red hue covering his cheeks too. “I understand. But… couldn’t we get in trouble if someone found out we’re not actually… that’s it just a sham of a marriage? Shouldn’t we try to avoid raising any suspicions?”

It shouldn’t be a problem, really, unless his aunt decides to raise some trouble. Mycroft scrunches his nose as he thinks about that; knowing dear Aunt Elise, that’s certainly a possibility. “You’re right, of course,” he agrees after a beat. “But-- you wouldn’t mind?”

Gregory shrugs non committedly, leaning back on his seat. “I mean… your flat is closer to the Yard than my own and certainly nicer, so that’s a plus.” He grins as Mycroft rolls his eyes good naturedly. “And living with you can’t be that terrible.”

“It’s a two bedroom flat,” Mycroft feels obliged to point out. “And since the point of the whole thing is to get my brother’s custody--”

“Well, yeah, but-- how terrible can it be? Do you snore too loudly? Hog the blankets?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft confesses, colouring once more. “I’ve never-- I’ve never shared my bed.”

Oh, why did he have to say so? Couldn’t he just have said “no”? Why must he find ways to embarrass himself in front of the other man? “Oh,” Gregory says, sounding surprised which is-- well, Mycroft doesn’t know what it is. He’d think it’s rather obvious; who would want him, after all? “That’s-- umm-- well, I guess we’ll find out,” he says finally, shrugging with affected indifference. 

Mycroft ignores the way his heart flutters inside his chest.  _ It’s not like that,  _ he reminds himself sharply. “I do appreciate it a great deal,” he says softly. “I owe you big time.”

Gregory chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t mention it, really. It’s nothing.”

Mycroft smiles mischievously. “Well… let’s see if you still think the same after you meet Sherlock.”

“You always make your brother sound like a little devil,” Gregory says fondly, smiling too. “But you’re marrying me so he can stay with you, so he can’t be that terrible.”

“I  _ adore  _ my brother,” Mycroft agress. “Doesn’t mean he’s not a little menace.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s nothing a copper and a  _ minor government official  _ can’t handle _ ,” _ he wiggles his eyebrows, amused and Mycroft snorts.

“You have no idea,” he says, taking a sip from his drink, the weight he’s been carrying over his shoulders for the last two days finally lifting. If Gregory hadn’t agreed with his crazy plan, Mycroft has no idea what he’d have done, since for once in his life he didn’t have a plan B. He’s thankful it hadn’t come down to that, of course, even if the idea of actually marrying Gregory has him feeling all confused.

On one hand, his dearest dream is about to come true.

On the other, it’s all a farce so he can keep Sherlock’s custody.

It’s not going to be easy, that’s for sure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Next chapter is nearly done, so next update shouldn’t take terribly long. I’m going to try to keep this lighthearted, but of course the angst is going to sneak in every once in a while so… well. I have way too many issues with the Holmes parents and they might be dead here but the results of bad parenting are far reaching so… well. Nothing will be too angsty, though.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m so happy by the positive response the first chapter got and I hope the trend continues ;)  
> This chapter is slightly more on a serious tone, but not overly so :P  
> Enjoy!

_ He’s engaged. _

_ Oh good god, he’s engaged! _

Greg drowns out the hysterical giggle threatening to escape him. Good god, how did this happen? How did he end up engaged to the man he’s been meaning to ask out for  _ ages  _ without ever actually gathering the courage to do so?

This is crazy. This is crazy on so many levels.

He stares at the engagement ring he’s been given.  _ To make it more believable,  _ Mycroft had said, completely oblivious to the way Greg’s heart had been about to burst with happiness when he slid the ring onto his finger. 

It’s not real, he reminds himself sharply, but it’s of little use to his silly heart which is too caught up with the idea of  _ marrying Mycroft  _ to focus on anything else. He closes his eyes, trying to gather his wits about him and he quickly realizes it’s a lost cause.

_ He’s getting married, for crying out loud! _

“Hey boss,” a knock on the wall of his cubicle startles him out of his pleasant daydreams. He looks up to find Sally leaning on the cubicle edge, smiling mischievously. “Anderson called. He has the results on the autopsy.”

Right. The murder he’s investigating, right. Greg really shouldn’t be allowing himself to become distracted, not in the middle of his work day, never mind how life changing his lunch break turned out to be. “Alright, let’s go,” Greg says, standing up, following after Sally as she makes her way towards forensics. “And Sal, we’ve discussed this. You don’t have-- I’m not technically your boss, so--”

“Sure you are,” she argues good naturedly, smiling at him from over her shoulder. “You’re a Sergeant, I’m just a Constable. It’s how it works.”

“But Gregson--”

Sally snorts. “With all due respect,” she says, holding the elevator’s door open. “I’d rather have you as boss, boss.”

Greg rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, moved the woman’s words. “Oh, please. Don’t get all sentimental on me,” Sally says, shoving his shoulder playfully and Greg smiles briefly, before figuring it’s time to get serious.

“All right then, back to work. What do we know about the victim?” he asks as they made their way down to the morgue. Sally starts filling him in, professional and efficient as ever and Greg smiles, thinking she won’t be a Constable for much longer.

With any luck, he’ll get promoted soon too. Considering he has (somehow) just acquired a fiancé, he could use a raise.

* * *

 

“I’m afraid that’s all I have for now,” Anderson says and Greg nods thoughtfully, carefully revising what they’ve learned so far. Sally is standing next to him, looking mighty bored, but Greg prides himself of being quite through when talking to forensics and he won’t leave until he’s certain they’ve got it all.

“Alright,” he says finally, nodding to himself. He taps his fingers against the metal slab where the body is and he offers Anderson a small, polite smile. “That’d be all, Anderson. Thank you for your time.”

The forensic nods, writing something down on his records and Greg turns to Sally, gesturing for her to lead the way. She’s not looking at him though, not really, her gaze focused on Greg’s hand which is still resting on top of the slab.

The hand that’s wearing the engagement ring, he realizes.

He throws Sally a sharp look, signaling he does not want to have this conversation right here right now and the woman just smile slyly. Greg sighs dramatically, figuring there’s nothing to be done about it now. By this time tomorrow the whole office will know about his engagement and he’ll be receiving congratulations left and right.

Which wouldn’t be a terrible thing, of course,  _ if it was real. _

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone,” Sally says, slapping his arm playfully, once the elevator’s doors have closed after them. “When did this happen? Do I know the guy?”

“How do you know it’s a guy?” Greg asks, tapping his foot against the floor, silently praying for something (someone) to interrupt them. 

Sally snorts. “Why would you be wearing the engagement ring otherwise?” Greg rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to say something about making assumptions, but Sally hurries to continue before he can speak. “And don’t bother trying to change the subject. You’ve just got engaged! I want to know everything!”

“Sal--”

“I thought we were friends!” she continues dramatically. “How could you keep it a secret from me? How long have you been seeing someone behind my back?”

“That makes it sound as if I was cheating on you,” Greg protests and Sally throws him an unimpressed look. “It’s… it’s a recent development, alright? In fact, it happened during lunch.”

“During lunch? Are you kidding me? No romantic dinner, no candlelights? Just a busy deli in the middle of the day?” she asks, sounding annoyed and Greg shrugs non committedly. “But wait, I thought you were still hung up on our  _ minor government official? _ ”

In many ways, Sally is like the little sister Greg never had: noisy and far too perceptive for Greg’s own good. “Yes, that’s… umm… it’s actually Mycroft.”

“What?!” Sally yells, just as the elevator’s doors open. “How-- when-- but just last week you were moping about not asking him out once again!” she continues, completely undeterred by all the curious glances they’re getting. “How did you go from failing to ask him out to marrying him?”

“It’s… complicated, alright? Can we discuss this later, please? When we’re off work?”

Sally makes a face, but seems to realize this is indeed not the best place for this conversation. “Alright,” she agrees finally with a small shrug. “But you’re telling me  _ everything,  _ you understand?”

Greg sighs.

He has no other choice, does he?

* * *

 

“Wow,” Sally says, still processing Greg’s words, taking a long sip from her beer, staring at Greg thoughtfully. “That’s-- and it’s all for an inheritance, you say?”

“I don’t think he cares that much about that,” Greg says softly, staring at his own drink moreselly. “It’s mostly about his brother, I think.”

Sally pursues her lips unhappily. “And you think it’s a good idea? Marrying the man you’ve been secretly in love for years?”

“I-- I don’t-- I mean--” Greg gestures helplessly, distraught. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Say no, I should think,” his companion tells him firmly, shaking her head. “I’m telling you, Greg: it’s going to end in disaster.” Greg thinks that too, but he couldn’t possibly say no to Mycroft. “At the very least you should tell him how you feel.”

“Are you crazy? It’ll only make things awkward! What if he doesn’t want to marry me afterwards?”

“That’d be probably for the best! You’re going to be living together, for Christ’s sake! You’re going to be raising a kid together! He’s going to have to kiss you from time to time, at the very least. Do you imagine you can live with those scraps of affection when you’re longing for so much more?”

Greg sighs, dropping his eyes to the ground. “I’ll manage,” he says and Sally snorts. “Sal, I can’t-- he needs my help. What kind of friend would I be--?”

“Oh, god, you’re hopeless,” Sally exclaims, shaking her head. “I’m not going to argue with you, Greg. You’re a grown man, so do whatever you think best,” she shakes her head once more, despondently. “It’s your funeral, after all.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Greg murmurs sulkily and Sally arches an eyebrow challengingly. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll end up falling madly in love, as protagonists tend to do in romantic comedies with the exact same plot.”

Sally rolls her eyes. “Sure. And you’ll live happily ever after, kid included.” She sighs and Greg hums thoughtfully, a small smile on his lips as he considers such scenario. “You’re hopeless,” Sally repeats, smiling fondly. “But, since you seem determined to go through with this… may I plan your hen party? I’ve always wanted to--”

“Stag party,” Greg corrects. “I’m not the bride.”

Sally waves a hand dismissively. “There are only going to be girls invited, so hen party it is.”

“But--”

“You have no friends, Greg. You work entirely too much,” she interrupts, smirking when Greg glares at her. “I, on the other hand, will get all the girls at the department involved. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

In lieu of an answer, Sally just smiles.

* * *

 

“Don’t you mean stag party?” Mycroft asks and Greg huffs.

“Sally said that it’d be a hen party because she’s only inviting the girls at the office. Apparently, I have no friends and so I’m stuck with hers.”

Mycroft chuckles, amused. “Well, you do work entirely too much, Gregory. You have no social life outside your job.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk!” Greg argues good naturedly, earning himself one of Mycroft’s rare smiles. “You’re the one who’s always busy. We always have to plan our lunches around your busy schedule.”

“Yes, perhaps it’d be best if we didn’t mention our schedules in front of my aunt and the lawyer,” Mycroft says, frowning a little. They’ve been driving for some time and Greg’s really curious where exactly they’re going. Mycroft said his old family home is somewhere in Sussex, but it’s been a while since Greg saw any real signs of civilization.

“Right,” Greg agrees, nodding seriously. “Should we-- do we need to come up with a story on how we meet and all that?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I hope we won’t have to discuss such matters with anyone, but if we must-- let me handle it.” His lips turn downwards, his displeasure evident. “I hope to cut this meeting short, actually.”

Greg nods in understanding. “Sure. Are you… umm… are we taking your brother back with us today?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Unlikely. Until this whole business is settled, Sherlock is probably going to have to stay here. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson is with him, so everything should be fine.”

Greg nods, not completely certain if that’s a good or a bad thing. “By the way… I was thinking you could move in tomorrow.”

Greg nearly chokes with his own saliva. “So soon?!” he exclaims, sounding perhaps a tad horrified.

Mycroft frowns a little. “If you’re having second thoughts--”

“No, no!” Greg hurries to reassure him. “It’s just-- I hadn’t thought about it,” he confesses softly, staring outside the window in an effort to avoid looking at Mycroft. “But yeah, it’s-- yeah, tomorrow… tomorrow works.”

From the corner of his eye, he catches Mycroft’s shap nod. He looks… unhappy, perhaps, but the expression is gone just a second later, his usual blank facade firmly in place right after. 

They travel in silence for a while, Greg still staring outside the window absentmindedly. This marriage business is a terrible idea, he knows and yet-- and yet--

“We’re here,” Mycroft announces suddenly and Greg has to look forward once more. They’ve come to a stop outside some old big metal doors, a huge golden “H” serving as decoration. 

Behind the doors, Greg can see a big house in the distance, so big it could be actually considered a mansion, he thinks. The place is surrounded by greenery and Greg gulps, nervous.

He knew Mycroft was old money, easy to tell by his posh accent and his expensive clothes, not to mention the way he never as much as glances at the price of anything he orders when they go out for lunch. Still, he must admit he wasn’t expecting this.

But what does he know about Mycroft Holmes, really? They’ve known each other for a little over three years, but Mycroft is terribly secretive, rarely sharing any personal details and Greg suddenly feels awfully unprepared for all this.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asks gently, placing a hand on his shoulder and startling Greg, making him jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine,” Greg says dismissively. “I just-- I wasn’t expecting--” he gestures around widely. “But I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Mycroft nods, uncertain. “If you’re sure…” Greg nods and Mycroft attempts to smile. They sit in silence for a while in front of the imposing house, just waiting, Greg trying to get his nerves back under control. “I think… shall we?” Mycroft asks finally and Greg takes a deep breath before nodding and stepping out of the car.

Well, here goes nothing.

* * *

 

The house looks out of one of those period dramas Greg likes to watch on a slow weekend. The inside is richly decorated, accentuating the impression of the owners being wealthy. There are a few portraits hanging from the walls, people who look vaguely like Mycroft staring down at them as they make their way through the long halls.

At some point Mycroft took his hand, or perhaps it was the other way around, Greg can’t exactly recall. Not like it matters, of course, since it’ll probably help them sell their story. After all, they’ve recently got engaged and they’re madly in love, so it’s just natural they’re holding hands, isn’t it?

The Holmes’ lawyer is a surprisingly young woman, with an imposing air about her. She’s petite and attractive, her designer clothes acentuating her figure. She smiles icily at Greg when Mycroft introduces him as his fiancé, but she greets him politely.

Greg sits stiffly on one of the chairs placed around the oak desk in what probably was Mycroft’s father’s study. Only one of the other chairs is occupied, an older dark haired woman sitting there, arms folded over her lap, expression severe. She’s dressed in black from head to toe, which only makes her look even more unfriendly than her dark expression.

“Aunt Elise,” Mycroft greets politely, nodding in the direction of the woman but not approaching her, sitting next to Greg. The woman barely spares a glance in his direction, before turning to inspect Greg. He feels woefully underdressed, but there’s nothing to do about it now, of course.

The woman looks at him as one looks at a bothersome mosquito, barely concealing her disgust. She scoffs after noticing the ring on Greg’s finger and Greg has the sudden urge to hide his hand behind his back. “Really, Mycroft?” the woman asks disdainfully, finally looking in his direction. “If you were going to purchase a boyfriend, you could have done much better.”

Greg can feel his cheeks heating up and Mycroft tightens his grip on his hand. “Speaking of bought affection, whatever happened to uncle Gary? Found himself a richer wife?” Mycroft asks, smiling icily.

Elise huffs, but doesn’t reply, turning her attention back to the front of the room. Mycroft glares before shaking his head and smiling at Greg apologetically. Greg shrugs non committedly; the woman’s words stung but he’s unwilling to let it show how badly they affected him.

“Shall we start with the full reading of the will?” the lawyer asks, taking a seat behind the desk. She sits with her back perfectly straight, elbows resting over the desk, fingers linked beneath her chin. Mycroft and his aunt nod and Greg settles down for what he’s beginning to suspect will be a long afternoon.

Mycroft’s hand is resting on his knee, though, and contemplating how easy and natural it feels should keep him entertained for a long while.

* * *

 

As Greg suspected, the reading of the will takes impossibly long and it’s boring as hell, the only saving grace it’s the fact that Mycroft keeps his hand lying on his knee, having started to  trace circles absentmindedly at some point. He’s more than a little intimidated by the sheer amount of properties, not to mention cars and jewelry and  _ paintings for God’s sake  _ the Holmes parents had, but Mycroft seems completely unfazed. Not everything will go to him, as Greg had originally thought, some things are indeed going to Mycroft’s aunt, but either way it’s  _ a whole lot  _ and why would anyone need so many stuff anyway? 

“I just don’t really think it counts,” Elise says finally, once the lawyer is done with her reading. The woman arches an eyebrow questioningly, gesturing for her to continue. “Mycroft isn’t married.”

“Yet,” Mycroft argues icily. “That’ll be handled soon enough.”

“Oh, please,” his aunts says, with a roll of her eyes. “It’s clearly just a ruse to get the inheritance.”

Greg tenses immediately, but Mycroft squeezes his knee reassuringly. “I assure you, aunt dear, that’s not true. While I’ll admit Gregory and I weren’t planning on tying the knot so soon, it was in our future plans.” His tone is firm, full of conviction and Greg’s silly heart flutters. “This was all just… an incentive to do it sooner.”

Elise scoffs, evidently unconvinced, turned to the lawyer once more. “And in any case, does that really count? It’s not a marriage, per se, since they’re both… well, men.”

“I don’t see why not,” the lawyer says dismissively, but her eyes are hard, annoyed. Probably it stuck a cord with her. “Same-sex marriage is legal in most parts of the UK, including in the local legislation, so I don’t see why that would be a problem.” She turns to Greg and Mycroft, offering them a small smile. “In any case, the will states as a condition for receiving his inheritance that Mr. Holmes has  _ settled down,  _ which could be interpreted in any number of ways, marriage just being the simpler definition, but an engagement would probably work too. If you want to take it to the family court, though…” she trails off, waving a hand in a gesture of  _ be my guest.  _ It wouldn’t be ideal, Greg thinks, but he supposes the woman doesn’t have much of a case anyway.

Elise huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, annoyed but not wanting to argue the matter any further. Greg releases the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and he allows himself to relax, unconsciously leaning closer to Mycroft, who places an arm around his shoulders casually.

The gestures makes Greg tense almost right away, but he quickly forces himself to relax once more, leaning even more into the embrace. It wouldn’t do to alert the women there’s anything amiss, particularly not since Mycroft’s aunt already seems to doubt of the trueness of their relationship.

“If that’s all…” the lawyer says, after a long and tense silence. “The will should be executed shortly and you’ll be able to take your brother with you then, Mr. Holmes. In the meantime, he’s staying here, at the family home under the care of a Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says calmly. “I would prefer to take him with me already, but I understand there might be some… limitations.”

The lawyer nods sharply. “Indeed. But I’ll do my best to have this business finished by next friday at most.” Mycroft nods in acknowledgement and the woman offers him a professional smile. “Very well. I shall take my leave now.”

“I’ll go with you,” Elise says, standing up to. “No need to linger here anyway,” she says, grabbing her coat and throwing one last dark glare in Mycroft’s direction before disappearing through the door, the lawyer following after her shortly after.

Mycroft sighs, letting go of Greg and he immediately misses the contact, but tells himself to focus on the things that actually matter, like supporting his friend. “Are you alright?” he asks softly, placing a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, rubbing circles comfortingly.

“Well enough,” Mycroft says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It went much better than I expected. I had thought aunt Elise would raise more trouble over my choice of partner because Mummy would have been outraged and certainly wouldn’t have been happy with me marrying you, but luckily Mrs. Blackwood shut that down rather quickly.”

Greg nods slowly, considering. “Your mother didn’t… umm…”

“She wouldn’t have approved of me dating another man, let alone marrying him.”

“Oh,” Greg murmurs, nodding in understanding. “I’m sorry,” he says, wondering if that’s the reason why Mycroft left his family home in the first place. It’s another one of those things they’ve never discussed, although Greg had already figured out Mycroft’s family relationship wasn’t exactly good.

“It’s fine,” Mycroft assures him. “I’m going to see Sherlock for a while, before we leave. Do you want to come with me?”

Greg nods, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “Sure. Since you’re going to be his legal guardian and I’m going to be your husband, he’ll be my charge too, won’t he? It’s only right that I meet him.”

Mycroft is watching him with a funny expression Greg can’t exactly interpret, but it looks  _ pained  _ somehow. Before he can think about it overly much though, it disappears, leaving nothing but blank indifference on Mycroft’s face. “Alright then. Let’s see if you still want to marry me after meeting Sherlock.”

Greg laughs, earning himself another one of those rare, wonderful smiles of Mycroft’s that he always treasures close to his heart. He follows after the younger man, trying to ignore the deep longing he feels in his gut.

There’s not a single thing in this world that would make Greg not want to marry Mycroft Holmes.

But he somehow doubts saying as much would be wise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, this chapter is on a slightly more serious note, but not overly so. Originally, the story started at the Holmes parents funeral (I had just came back from one when I started writing this) but it was just so… well, I didn't like it. I wanted something light and fun and well… here we are.  
> But of course some seriousness must slip every now and then. And the angst, of course, because what’s some pining without angst? :P  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I didn’t think I’d get another update done this week, since I’m not working tomorrow and I’m supposed to be preparing for an audit next week but well… my priorities are a little skewed ;)  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

“I honestly didn’t think you had it in you,” Sherlock says, barely sparing a glance in Mycroft’s direction, eyes fixed on the chemistry book he’s pretending to read. All in all, Mycroft thinks, the introductions went as well as they possibly could; at least Gregory didn’t leave the room screaming, calling their engagement off.

“Glad to see I can still surprise you, then,” Mycroft comments in what he hopes is an off handed tone, but it probably betrays his anxiety all the same. He’s never been too good at fooling Sherlock, not when emotions are involved and his little brother’s approval of his  _ fiancé  _ means more to him than what he’s willing to admit.

Sherlock huffs, finally putting the book down, sitting up a bit straighter. “You weren’t even dating, were you?” Mycroft sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t expected to fool Sherlock, of course, but he had hoped his brother wouldn’t confront him over it. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “But you do like him.”

Mycroft sighs once more, nodding miserably. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He likes you,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “I should think that counts for something.”

Gregory does like him, Mycroft knows, only not in the way he’d want. “He’s a friend. He agreed to help.”

“Regular friends don’t pretend to be each other’s fiancé,” Sherlock points out, with a small knowing +¿smirk. “Or so it’d seem. They only do on those ridiculous romcoms Mrs. Hudson likes to watch on friday evenings, but then of course, they didn’t want to be  _ just friends _ to begin with.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Life, mine in particular, isn’t a romantic comedy, brother dear.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” his brother tells him, eyes alight with mischief, picking up his book and leaning back on the pillows once more. “Although, to be fair, I don’t suppose you’ll find it very funny.” He smirks and Mycroft glares some more. “You’re picking me up next week, right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees, nodding reluctantly, not liking Sherlock’s expression one bit. He’s planning something, that’s easy enough to see and it’s unlikely to bode well for Mycroft. “I’ll clear out the guest room and you’ll be staying with me until you turn eighteen, at the very least.”

Sherlock hums. “And where will your fiancé be staying?” Mycroft doesn’t dignify that with an answer and Sherlock chuckles, shaking his head. “Fake marriage with bed sharing included. It has romcom written all over it.”

Mycroft glares, before turning on his heel and storming down the hall, feeling a mix of frustration and annoyance. He adores his brother, he really does, but some days--

Well, one thing is for sure: living with him and Gregory isn’t going to be easy.

 

* * *

 

The dining room is way too quiet when Mycroft finally makes his way downstairs.

Gregory throws a panicked look in his direction and Mycroft sighs, turning to Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper who’s, generally speaking, a nice woman, but a little overprotective. “Mrs. Hudson, kindly stop threatening my fiancé.”

The woman huffs. “I’m not doing such thing, Mycroft dear. I was just… _ strongly encouraging him _ to be good to Sherlock. God knows the poor boy can be difficult, but he’s a fine lad.”

Mycroft sighs. “I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock will be in good hands,” he argues, as calmly as he can. “Both Gregory and I will do our best to look after him.” Well, at least  _ he will.  _ Helping raising his little brother was not something Gregory exactly agreed on and, in any case, this ruse is not meant to last too long.

Mrs. Hudson hums. “I’d have believed you, once upon a time,” the woman says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Before you left him, that is.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, willing himself not to lose his temper. The subject of his leaving is a sore topic between he and his brother and he certainly doesn’t care for outsiders’ opinions.

He smiles thinly and the woman huffs, before disappearing back into the kitchen. Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly, feeling an incoming headache. “Are you alright?” Gregory asks, voice soft and suddenly standing too close. When did he come this close?

“Fine,” he murmurs sourly. “It’s just-- what Mrs. Hudson said--” he lets out a harsh breath and Gregory steps impossibly close, grabbing him by the wrist gently, drawing circles on the inside of it. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” his companion says softly, his touch more soothing than it has any right to be. “I understand it must be an uncomfortable subject.” His eyes are kind and Mycroft has the sudden urge to pour out his heart, an urge he often feels when the other man looks at him like that.

Good god, how is he going to survive this “marriage”? It’s a bad idea, terrible really and he should-- he should--

But no, he tells himself sharply. He’s already failed his brother before and he can not possibly let aunt Elise take him. So even if what’s waiting for him down this road is heartache, he’ll endure.

_ He has to. _

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson prepares them a light meal and Sherlock even shows up to eat (a very rare occurrence, truth to be told. So rare in fact, that Mycroft’s now even more convinced that his brother is planning something). Afterwards, reluctant as he had been of leaving his brother once more, it was getting quite late and Mycroft hadn’t been keen on driving all the way back to London in the dark.

So here they are now, driving in silence, Gregory gazing outside the window absentmindedly. It’s not uncomfortable, not by far, which Mycroft would normally find odd. He’s not one to indulge in random chit chat, but he has found sitting in silence with someone for prolonged periods of time quickly becomes unbearable. It’s never been the case with Gregory, certainly and he wonders what that might mean.

“Can I ask you a question?” Gregory says suddenly, turning to him. Mycroft arches an eyebrow, lips curving upwards briefly and his companion huffs, amused. “Well, another one that is.”

“Of course,” he agrees, smiling a little. He finds it entirely too easy to smile at the other man, which he often finds disturbing. “What is it?”

“Can you do that too?”

Mycroft frowns. “Do what?”

Gregory hesitates for a beat, obviously torn. Mycroft’s frown deepens, going over their little visit inside his head. “The… the deduction thing.” He’s blushing a little, although Mycroft isn’t sure  _ why.  _

“Ah, well, yes,” he says, uncertain. While his ability to deduct people has served him well in the past, he has learned people rarely react positively to it and so it’s an ability he’d rather keep hidden. Sherlock however, has no qualms about deducting people’s life out loud, “I taught him, actually.”

Gregory hums. “Would be useful in the job,” he says, a slight smile on his lips. “But how do you do it? I mean-- I suppose the middle-class background wasn’t very difficult,” he says, gesturing at his clothes. Mycroft pursues his lips; he had noticed how aunt Elise’s words had affected Gregory and he had feared Sherlock dwelling on his background would just upset him further, but while his brother can be cruel when provoked and his social skills aren’t the best, he does know what lines not to cross. “But everything else? How does he know I live close to St. James?”

“The mud on your shoes,” Mycroft replies easily and chuckles when his companion hurries to check if he’s leaving muddy prints on the car’s carpet. “Don’t worry, they’re mostly clean but bits of it cling to the sides. The consistency is typical of the terrain close to the duck’s pond in St. James, although I’m not quite sure how Sherlock knows that.”

Gregory frowns a little, processing the information. “But how--”

“It’s a mixture of observation and good memory,” Mycroft explains calmly. “Keeping in mind all those little details, like the different consistency of the mud in differents parts London it’s not exactly easy, but it’s certainly doable.”

“Sure,” Gregory says, with a small smile. “If you’re a genius.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Hardly. It’s just paying attention to details and remembering them.”

Gregory chuckles, shaking his head. “I always knew you were too smart for me, but never knew just how smarter,” his smile is fond and Mycroft finds himself smiling too. “It explains how you’re usually ten steps ahead from everyone else.”

Mycroft shrugs, slightly self conscious, feeling a light blush spreading over his cheeks. “It’s nothing, really,” he murmurs bashfully. “I often kept myself entertained by playing deductions, when I was forced to attend social functions with my parents and when Sherlock was born… well, I thought it’d be nice to have a playmate.”

Gregory’s smile is making Mycroft’s insides turn into mush, but he manages to keep his expression from betraying his thoughts. “You were a wonderful older brother, no doubt,” Gregory says, with a small smile. “My older brothers did nothing but tease me and they never let me play with them.”

“The age difference probably didn’t help,” Mycroft points out and then realizes that while Gregory has mentioned his older brothers often enough, he’s never actually told him how much older they are. “I mean--”

“Ten years, between the oldest and me,” Greg agrees, still smiling and Mycroft relaxes right away. “And you’re… what? Thirteen, fourteen years older than Sherlock?”

“Thirteen,” Mycroft says. “But it was different. My parents weren’t… Sherock has always been a bit…  _ challenging.  _ Too smart for his own good, not many social skills, no real filter. My parents tended to leave him with me often enough, so he wouldn’t  _ cause an scene. _ ” He scrunches his nose in displeasure, his whole body going tense as the memories resurface. Father had been mostly distant, but Mummy had a tendency to being deliberately cruel when they didn’t act the way she expected them to. Mycroft had learned early on it wasn’t wise to displease her, always being careful of  _ behaving appropriately,  _ but Sherlock--

Well.

“It must have been difficult for you,” Gregory says, tentatively resting a hand on his elbow. “Going to live in London on your own.”

Mycroft clenches his jaw, but soon forces himself to relax. “I didn’t want to leave him,” he acknowledges slowly, measuring his words. “But I-- my parents had very particular ideas of what I was supposed to be doing with my life and I just…” he shrugs non committedly, or at least attempts to make it look so. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Gregory hums, squeezing his arm comfortingly. Mycroft has always hated those useless meaningless gestures, but something about Gregory makes him feel actually comforted. “Although as you can see, my parents’ commitment to dictating my life is far reaching.”

Gregory squeezes his arm once more. “Well, perhaps. But as you pointed out earlier, they wouldn’t have approved of me, so the joke is on them,” his tone sounds a little off, but Mycroft knows better than to take his eyes off the road to try to figure out his partner’s expression (and besides, he doesn’t think he really wants to know)

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees, feeling his heart constrict inside his chest.  _ If only it was real,  _ he thinks. “And on the subject of our impending nuptials,” he continues, in what he hopes is a lighthearted tone that doesn’t betray the depth of his longing. “Have you thought of date?”

“Have you?” Gregory asks, one eyebrow arched knowingly and Mycroft sighs. 

“Yes,” he admits, making Gregory smirk. “I was thinking March 12th.”

Gregory frowns, staring at him. “That sounds… oddly specific. Any reason in particular?”

Mycroft doesn’t reply, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. It’s sentimental, he knows and maybe unwise since it might clue Greg into the real depth of his feelings, but-- “Oh,” his companion says, realization sinking in. “It’s the day we met, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nods tightly, feeling a sudden lump in his throat, fearing that if he speaks he’ll betray himself. Gregory stares at him for a beat and Mycroft forces himself not to turn around and try to deduct what he’s thinking. “Yes, I-- I think it works,” the other man finally says, staring outside the window now and Mycroft wonders if he’s made a mistake. “Will it be-- I mean-- my parents will kill me if I don’t invite them, but do you think that’s… wise?”

The lump in his throat keeps on growing, threatening to asphyxiate him. “I don’t know,” he confesses softly. “I mean-- how long do you think we ought to keep married?”

He catches sight of Gregory’s expression from the corner of his eye and he wonders why he looks so upset,  but before he can overthink it, it’s gone, making him wonder if he actually saw it or if he’s just projecting. “I don’t know,” his companion says softly, staring at his hands. “You probably want to be done with it as soon as possible, but a think at least a year would be smart? I mean… can you aunt raise any trouble if we don’t stay married for long?”

“It could be messy,” Mycroft acknowledges. “But I was thinking a couple of years should do the trick.”

Gregory’s eyes have gone very wide, open in shock. “Two years?!” he asks, surprise and perhaps horror clear in his tone.

“Well, there’s no clause on we actually being  _ happily married,” _ Mycroft says, perhaps a tad too angrily. He understands being married to him for that long isn’t ideal, but-- “Feel free to date to your heart’s content.”

“What?! Mycroft, I--”

“It’s not like it’s a real marriage,” Mycroft carries on, undeterred, wondering if he sounds as  _ bitter _ as he thinks he does. “You’re doing me a favour, Gregory. I expect nothing of you, certainly not sexual fidelity.”

Gregory coughs, looking horrified. “I didn’t-- I wasn’t implying-- god Mycroft!” he shakes his head, closing his eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. “I was just surprised you wanted to stay married that long,” he murmurs, sounding off once more. “Didn’t think you’d want me around for so long.”

_ I want you around forever more,  _ Mycroft thinks, although he also believes that might be an exaggeration. They haven’t known each other for long and they haven’t actually dated, so who’s to say they would actually work out as a couple? “You make it sound as if living with you was a hardship,” he murmurs apologetically. 

“Well… I suppose we’ll see,” Gregory replies back, softly and he sounds oddly sad, which is something Mycroft very much doesn’t approve off. 

“On the other hand, living with my brother… well, that might be a bit more of a hardship,” Mycroft says, hoping to lighten the mood and his companion offers him a brief smile.

“He can’t be that bad.”

Mycroft hums. “Let’s see if you continue thinking that after he’s burned all your shirts.”

“Why would he do that?”

“An experiment, he’ll say. To be contrarious, most probably.” Gregory is looking at him with wide eyes once more, but he looks amused more than anything else. 

“Well, I suppose it’ll be as a good excuse as any to get you to buy me a new wardrobe,” he smirks, winking. “What kind of gold-digger husband would I be otherwise?”

Mycroft laughs, an honest full belly laugh and his companion soon joins in, the tension between them dissipating as if by magic. 

_ It’ll be fine,  _ Mycroft thinks.

After all, he couldn’t have picked a better husband.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Next chapter might take a bit longer, since as I said, I have an audit to worry about but I guess we’ll see :P   
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought and if there’s anything in particular you’d like to see ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I wanted to rewrite the last scene, because there was a conversation I forgot to include, but it just wasn’t working and well… I’ll save it for later, I think :P  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

“It’s sheer madness, it’s what it is,” Sally says as she helps him box the last of his possessions, unceremoniously dropping the box on the floor afterwards. “What are you going to do with all your stuff, anyway?” she continues, eying the by now mostly packed room. “I could use that coffee maker I saw in your kitchen, you know?”

Greg huffs, amused. “You can have it, I suppose. It’s the least I can do for you, after all.”

“Damn right,” Sally says, sitting down on the bed, whipping some sweat of her forehead. “How many friends would help you move out on such short notice?” Greg smiles at her and she rolls her eyes fondly. “But seriously Greg, what are you going to do with your stuff? You’re not getting rid of it, are you?”

“No, I--”

“Because considering what you’re doing for him, the least your  _ fiancé _ could do is keep on paying your rent, so you’ll have a place to go back to, when things inevitably crash and burn,” she deadpans and Greg tries hard not to flinch.

“Thank you for the support, Sal. You’re being really encouraging.”

“I’m not trying to be  _ encouraging,” _ she argues, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s one thing to fake-marriage a guy you’re actually madly in love with and a completely different one to get so caught up in your little fantasy that you forget to be smart about it.”

“Smart?” Greg asks, one eyebrow arched. “There’s nothing  _ smart _ about what I’m doing,” he says, gesturing at the room, voice high pitched. “As you’ve pointed out before, what I’m doing is absolutely  _ insane _ .”

Sally sighs. “And yet you’re doing it anyway. You’ve got it bad, boss.”

“I know,” Greg murmurs miserably, sitting next to her, looking around the mostly empty room. “Sal, I-- I don’t-- can we please not discuss this?”

The woman sighs once more, but doesn’t protest. “Of course,” she agrees, patting Greg’s back awkwardly. “Only, I hope you know that when things crash and burn, you’re welcome to kip on my old couch for as long as you want.”

“Thank you,” Greg murmurs, attempting to smile and failing miserably. “And for the record, Mycroft is going to have my stuff sent into one of storage units his family owns, so I can retrieve them when we divorce.” He ignores the way his heart clenches at the thought, mostly for Sally’s sake, he thinks. “We just thought keeping the flat might drag unwanted attention.”

Sally huffs. “Rich people. You know what my aunt left me? Some jewelry. Do you think anyone tried to fight me for it?” she shakes her head, somewhere between amused and frustrated. “That aunt Elise does sound like something.”

Greg hums, but doesn’t comment. His thoughts on the subject are similar enough, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

They sit in silence for a while, recovering, each lost in thought.

“So, when you say a storage unit-- do you mean a single storage unit or the whole warehouse?” Sally asks, tone flippant, no doubt sensing how quickly his mood is taking a turn for the worse.

“Warehouse,” he replies with a little smile.

“Damn,” she says, smiling mischievously. “I’ll ask around for a good divorce lawyer. If nothing else, we’ll end up loaded when all is said and done.”

“We?”

“Of course,” Sally replies, standing up. “After enduring all your pining and pitiful moaning, I should get something, don’t you think?”

Greg chuckles, standing up too. “Fair enough,” he agrees, doing his damn best to ignore the bitter taste the mere idea of  _ divorce  _ leaves on his mouth.

Nothing to do about it, of course.

He did know what he was getting into.

* * *

 

“And since you already have picked a wedding date, am I allowed to start planning the hen’s night?”

Greg rolls his eyes, ignoring the curious glances he gets from the movers. Sally leans against the wall, watching the men carry off Greg’s few possessions into the moving van, smirking a little.

“I suppose,” he concedes, because he does know there’s no arguing with Sally and for some reason, she does seem to be looking forward to all this  _ hen’s night  _ planning. 

Sally grins, delighted. “It’s settled then,” she says, with a mad glint in her eye and Greg tries to suppress a shiver.

“Why do I get the feeling that I don’t really want to attend this party?”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, it’ll be fun! Besides, we’re all coppers, so it’s not like we’re going to do anything  _ illegal. _ ” That’s not as reassuring as she seems to think, but Greg doesn’t say as much. “Besides, Stella is great at party planning. You wouldn’t want to miss out.”

Greg nearly chokes on his own saliva. “Stella? As in Stella Hopkins?” Sally nods,evidently not seeing anything wrong with that and Greg groans. “Sal, one does not normally invite exes to bachelor parties!”

“Ok, first of all, that’s ridiculous. Secondly, Stella is hardly your  _ ex _ ,” Sally says and Greg opens his mouth to protest, but she hurries to carry on, undeterred. “Just because you made out a couple of times in the evidence closet--”

“We did not--”

“And went for drinks once or twice--”

“I--”

“It doesn’t mean you were dating.”

“I was under the impression that that was exactly what dating involved, Ms. Donovan,” a new voice says and Greg is torn between amusement at Sally’s expression and dread at the fact that Mycroft overheard their conversation. “Perhaps I was mistaken?”

“Well… you and Greg have gone for drinks a handful of times!” she exclaims, recovering as quickly as ever. “Does that mean you were dating?”

“The Detective Sergeant and I have yet to make out  _ anywhere,  _ so no, I don’t think so,” Mycroft replies calmly and Greg can’t help the shiver of excitement that runs down his spine at the thought of  _ making out with Mycroft. _

“ _ Have yet, _ ” Sally says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Which means you might, one of these days?”

Greg glares at his friend, but the woman is too busy smiling madly at Mycroft, who is blinking owlishly, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. “I… I did not mean… that’s not…” his  _ fiancé  _ stammers out, his blush deepening by the second and, as endearing as the image is, Greg figures it’s time to come to his rescue.

“Don’t listen to her,” he says, squeezing Mycroft’s arm. “She’s kidding.”

Mycroft’s expression is hard to read, but he quickly recovers his usual calm facade. “Yes, I’ve noticed Ms. Donovan is prone to… joke.”

Sally rolls her eyes dramatically. “Well, as entertaining as watching you two dance around each other is, I do have other places to be,” she announces merrily, grabbing her jacket from the kitchen counter. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.”

“Bye Sal!” Greg says, waving, ignoring the wink she throws in his direction and turning to Mycroft. “You know you needn’t to come, right?” he asks and while he means it, he must admit he’s quite pleased by the development.

“I had no other plans for the afternoon,” Mycroft replies with a shrug. “And besides, it’s only polite I’m around to help my fiancé move in, don’t you think?” 

Greg feels like melting, but manages to keep a pleasant smile on his face that doesn’t betray how soft his insides have gone. “Damn right,” he agrees, holding himself back from doing as he wants and leaning forward for a quick kiss. 

“Shall we, then?” Mycroft asks, gesturing for the stairs and Greg smiles once more, before making his way out of the flat, not once looking back.

* * *

 

“Huh.”

“Something wrong?” Mycroft asks, sounding honestly concerned and Greg smiles, shaking his head.

“No, not at all,” he says, stepping more fully into the flat. “It’s just-- it’s not as posh as I expected.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically and Greg grins. “Sorry it’s not the penthouse you were hoping for,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is it making you have second thoughts about our engagement?”

“Oh, you’re not getting rid off me so easily, darling,” Greg says, amused.

“Because we could always move into one of the flats I’ve just inherited,” Mycroft carries on, smiling a little. “If that’s dealbreaker, I mean.”

It’s Greg’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t be silly,” he says, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “It’s not like I’m marrying you for your money.” It occurs Greg all this  _ joking  _ is getting a little too close to the truth and he clears his throat awkwardly. “So, do I get a grand tour?”

“If you want,” Mycroft agrees, vowing his head a little. “Right this way,” he says, leading him down the hall in what Greg thinks is the direction of the kitchen. He’s much more interested in seeing the master bedroom, truth to be told, but saying as much would probably give away too much.

He does not want to scare his  _ fiancé _ away, after all.

* * *

 

The flat is indeed a little less posh than he imagined, but nice all the same. It’s certainly bigger than Greg’s-- his one-bedroom flat barely deserved to be called that, really, since the division between the kitchen/living room/bedroom was practically nonexistent.

The kitchen is decently sized; not that it’ll matter much since neither of them really have the time to properly cook any meals. Everything in it looks new and expensive and Greg must admit to himself he’s a little worried about breaking something.

The living room looks like it was taken straight out of one of those interior design magazines, everything carefully chosen to look its best, but it feels awfully artificial, not home-y at all. There’s a big flat screen that Greg doubts ever gets used and what looks like an expensive sound system with so many buttons Greg has no idea what they’re for.

The guest bedroom has a small balcony and a bathroom right in front of it. The decoration is spartan, really, but Greg has no doubt that once Sherlock moves in that will no longer be an issue.

The master bedroom is just as richly decorated as the living room, but it does feel living in. It’s lovely, Greg thinks, particularly if you take into consideration the ensuite bathroom, large bathtub included. It looks like it’s rarely used and Greg intends to fix that, wistfully wishing Mycroft would join him, although he doubts that’ll ever be anything other than a lovely fantasy.

Greg drops himself unceremoniously on the bed, to test the mattress and while his companion rolls his eyes at his  _ childish attics,  _ Greg only grins. “I could get used to this,” he announces, lying down, spreading his arms and legs as wide as they’ll go.

Mycroft smiles, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes.

Greg doesn’t ask.

* * *

 

Later, they order takeaway and sit in front of the telly, although they promptly ignore it in favour of each other. Talking to Mycroft has always been easy, a sense of kinship ever present even if Greg is well aware most of the subjects they discuss are superficial. It’s nice all the same though and it makes every little bit of information that Mycroft reveals feel all the more important.

He’s not a man who trusts easily, but he does trust Greg and really, what else could he ask for?

_ How easy it is, _ Greg thinks, sitting on the left corner of the couch, his sock-clad feet brushing against Mycroft’s, who’s sitting on the other corner, smiling softly as he eats. 

If it was real, Greg would crawl his way into the other side of the couch, try to steal a piece of Mycroft’s dinner, earning himself a fond smile. He’d kiss that smile then, basking in the warmth of his companion, simply enjoying the closeness.

But it’s not, so Greg remains on his side of the couch, smiling and trying not to get drown by his own longing. 

It’s a hell of his own creation, he’s well aware.

And he wouldn’t change it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> A part of me doesn’t want to make this unbelievably long, but another part keeps coming up with new ideas to complicate matters and it’s really all a mess inside my head :P I guess we’ll see ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new update! I’m terribly sorry for how late it is, but last week was hell at work since I had many things to finish so I could take this week off and well… I didn’t get much writing done, to be honest.  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

_Hell_ might be to most apt way to describe Mycroft’s current situation.

It’s one thing to admire someone from afar and a completely different one to have said someone so close you could actually touch them, if only…

But no, Mycroft thinks, folding his hands closer to himself. Gregory is fast asleep, snoring lightly, mouth slightly open and completely oblivious to Mycroft’s inner turmoil. He’s not used to going to bed this early, so he’s nowhere near sleepy and he’s beginning to think he’ll need to be dying of tiredness in order to get any sleep while he has a bedmate.

Mycroft considers his options carefully. If he was on his own, he’d be at his desk, working. He had meant to do just that, actually, but then it occured him the desk lamp might disturb his companion, not to mention the noise of his quick typing and he had figured it was only polite to retire to bed too, when Gregory had announced he was tired.

His companion does look fast asleep, so it’s unlikely he’ll wake up even if Mycroft goes to work on his laptop and he supposes he can work with just the light from the screen. But in order to do that, he’d need to abandon the bed and his companion stirs every time he as much as shifts a little so…

This could be problematic.

He turns to observe his bedmate once more, taking in his features in the soft moonlight coming through the window. He looks peaceful and he certainly had no trouble falling asleep, which Mycroft supposes it shouldn’t surprise him: it must be much easier to fall asleep next to someone you feel nothing but vague fondness for, rather than going to bed with someone you’re madly in love with.

He holds back a groan, turning to stare at the ceiling once more. He had known it wouldn’t be easy, but there are so many little things he evidently miscalculated. He was joking earlier, when he suggested moving into one of the flats he has just inherited, but that might be a good idea after all. One of those three-bedroom ones might be wise, although…

There’s no telling which lengths is Aunt Elise willing to go to get her hands on the family’s fortune and Mycroft has no doubt the rest of the family would happily back her off if it all came down to it, so his best bet is lie low and carry on with this lovely pretense.

Given enough time, he’ll probably get used to this.

After all, they’ve still got two years to go, don’t they?

* * *

 

Mycroft managed to doze off, but when he opens his eyes once again he realizes that was a mistake.

There’s an arm throw around his middle, Gregory’s solid form wrapped across his back, holding him as if life itself depended on it. He can not help to think of those romcoms his dear brother mentioned and how surreal the whole situation is.

 _It’s just normal,_ he tells himself sternly, trying not to enjoy their arrangement too much. It’s just normal to curl closer to a source of warmth on cold nights, particularly when said source of warmth happens to be another body. There’s no denying he’s comfortable, even if he feels a little self conscious and considering Gregory is completely asleep, he must be even more comfortable.

Mycroft allows himself to lean back, blushing furiously at the contented sound his bedmate makes before sinking his nose in the nape of his neck. Mycroft manages to hold himself very still, barely daring to breath, not wishing to disturb his companion.

Gregory murmurs something softly to himself, before pulling Mycroft even more impossibly close. It’s nice, much nicer than it has any right to be and he soon finds himself relaxing, actually _enjoying_ the embrace.

When was the last time someone hugged him, anyway? Sherlock must have been… six, seven? It was shortly before he went back to Uni, after the Christmas break. His brother had been upset to see him leave (again) and had hugged him goodbye. A year later, when Mycroft had tried to hug him, Sherlock had politely informed he was too old for such displays of affection and, hurt as Mycroft had been, he hadn’t argued the point.

He has missed those hugs, though. Physical contact was a precious commodity at the Holmes household, one which Sherlock used to bestow on him easily. Mycroft remembers his little brother hugging him at random moments, _just because,_ completely ignoring Mummy’s disapproving looks.

It’s a pity, he thinks, that his relationship with Sherlock has grown so strained. He remembers clearly the day Mummy came back from the hospital, bringing his baby brother with her. He was so small and delicate Mycroft had been certain he’d hurt him if he tried to pick him up, but he had had to get over that particular fear that same night when his little brother wouldn’t stop crying and their mother kept ignoring his increasingly heartbreaking cries.

If asked, Mummy would have said both of her children had been quiet babies, never making much fuss and sleeping all the way through the night from the very beginning. Mycroft can’t attest for himself, of course, but he does know that was not the case with Sherlock, although she probably never noticed since Mycroft was the one getting up in the middle of the night when his brother made even the slightest noise.

Even when Sherlock was a toddler, it wasn’t uncommon for Mycroft to check on him in the middle of the night and his brother would occasionally crawl in bed with him after a nightmare or if it was raining outside. Mummy never approved, so they had to be very careful about each of them being in their respective beds come morning, but the fact that it was a secret, _their secret_ made it all the more rewarding.

He often wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t left for Uni. It had been against his parents’ wishes, naturally and that was part of the reason why he did it, but mostly it had been a desperate attempt to get away, to try to figure out who he was without his parents constant input. And once he left, he realized he couldn’t come back; not without feeling like he was constantly drowning, not without feeling like he was pretending the whole time he was around his parents.

And he had missed Sherlock. He had missed Sherlock desperately and he had known he was failing him, leaving him to his fate, but-- but--

And that’s the heart of the issue, isn’t it? That there’s no real justification for it.

Which is why he must endure now, he thinks. Because he has already failed Sherlock once and he can not be selfish again. It might inconvenience him a little and it might leave him brokenhearted in the long run, but it’s a hundred times better than being the cause of his brother’s suffering ever again.

He realizes he’s gone very tense, because his companion makes a soft protesting sound, before hugging him tighter. Mycroft forces himself to relax, even if having been reminded he’s not actually alone is not very conductive for it. But Gregory’s solid weight is comforting in ways he does not dare to think too much of, allowing himself to bask in the warmth of the embrace instead.

It’s not ideal, of course, mostly because he’s all too aware this is just temporary, but he supposes it could be worse. And maybe he ought to enjoy it while he still can: it’s not like he’ll be hurting anyone with allowing himself this illusion (except, maybe, himself).

With that thought in mind, he closes his eyes, drifting off to sleep shortly after.

 

* * *

 

Considering how late he usually goes to bed, it’s very rare for Mycroft to be out of bed before 7 o’clock but that doesn’t seem to be the case with his bedmate. When his alarm starts beeping, Mycroft is half tempted to throw it against the wall to silence it, but finds himself wide awake when he realizes he’s no longer being held in a warm embrace and so any desire he had to linger in bed disappears as if by magic.

He rolls out of bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He might not have slept that much last night, with all that inner turmoil he went through, but he feels more refreshed than ever before. Perhaps it won’t be so terrible, he dares to think, perhaps he might even come to enjoy this particular Hell he has landed himself into.

He walks into the kitchen in search for something to eat before taking a shower, just to find his _fiancé_ at the kitchen counter, reviewing today’s paper as he chews a donut cheerfully. “Good morning, sleepyhead!” Gregory greets, good naturedly. “Went out for a run and found this lovely cafe just down the corner-- thought I’d bring us breakfast!” he indicates the two coffee cups to go sitting on the counter, next to a box containing several small pastries.

Oh good god, this must be what Heaven looks like. Gregory looking all domestic, leaning against the counter as he eats (nevermind his appalling manners, nor the many crumbs he’s dropping on the floor), a box of pastries sitting on his counter for him to choose from. Discretely, Mycroft pinches himself, just to make sure he’s not, in fact, dreaming.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, picking a tasty looking croissant, incapable of holding back the moan that escapes him once he bites into it. “Good god, how is I that haven’t come across this cafe before?”

Gregory is staring at his lips, perhaps a tad too intently and Mycroft wonders if he managed to make a mess of himself. Doubtful, but-- “It’s a little hidden,” Gregory says, seemingly snapping out of his revery, looking up with a guilty expression. “I’ll take you tomorrow, if you want to come with me on my morning run.”

 _I’d rather die than exercise_ is Mycroft’s first thought, although he knows his doctor would be disappointed: he’s been pushing for him to exercise more and this would be the perfect opportunity. He takes another bite of his croissant and he considers his answer very carefully.

“I suppose sacrifices could be made,” he says finally, mostly to himself rather than to his companion. “Particularly if there’s such a tasty reward at the end.”

Gregory laughs, startling him a little. He’s too used to being alone, so when he happens to speak out loud (which is more often than he’d like to admit), he’s used to no one answering.

“Alright,” Gregory says, having missed his reaction apparently. “I’ll wake you up tomorrow. Now I probably should go take a shower, unless you want to go first?”

A shower. What an interesting, distracting idea. How is he supposed to focus now on anything else but the fact that his companion will be taking a shower in his bathroom, completely naked?

“Go ahead,” Mycroft says and he’s quite proud of himself for managing to say something, particularly something somewhat coherent. Gregory smiles before turning around, heading in the direction of the bathroom and Mycroft remains where he is, trying to ignore the interest his body has taken on the mental image his brain has conjured.

He picks up another pastry, biting into it viciously.

Dear god, this man will be the death of him.

* * *

 

“I heard congratulations are in order.”

Mycroft looks up from his work, offering his boss a perfuctionary smile. Mr. Stevenson's tone suggests he does not believe congratulations are in order, in fact, he probably thinks Mycroft is making the biggest mistake of his career. In their particular line of work attachments are rather frown upon and a partner is seen as something detrimental, so it’s not surprising at all.

“Thank you, sir,” he replies calmly. Informing anyone of the real nature of his engagement and subsequent marriage won’t be doing him any favours and it might compromise the secrecy of their ploy. Of course, Ms. Donovan has already been informed of the fakeness of their engagement, but Mycroft honestly didn’t expect any different: she’s the closest thing Gregory has to a friend and he wouldn’t lie to her, no matter what.

In any case, Ms. Donovan seems all too happy with play along with the charade: she has already scheduled the bachelor party and she’s been researching wedding locations. Mycroft thinks she might be a little over involved, but she’s an only child and she clearly sees Gregory as a brother-figure so he supposes it might be to be expected.

“I do hope this won’t compromise your excellent work, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Stevenson says after a too long pause in which Mycroft had completely forgot about his boss presence. “It’d be a pity to lose your talent for an ill advised… _attachment._ ”

It takes every bit of Mycroft’s self control not to roll his eyes. “I assure you it won’t,” he replies plainly, earning himself a considering look from the older gentleman. _It’s not like that,_ he could say, but that would raise questions Mycroft doesn’t particularly want to answer. And in any case, while he and Gregory might not be emotionally involved, he won’t deny the man is a weak spot of his.

Although, to be completely fair, Mycroft has always had a weak spot. That his employers have failed to notice until this point is really a testament of his talent for keeping his emotions well under wraps, although he supposes saying as much might not go well with Mr. Stevenson.

“Good,” the older man says, before finally disappearing down the hall, leaving Mycroft to his work.

Good, indeed.

* * *

 

“So, I heard congratulations are in order,” a chipper, more friendly voice says and Mycroft smiles politely. Mrs. Smallwood will be an important connection to have, one of these days, but in the meantime Mycroft is often left wondering why he puts up with the woman.

“Thank you, Alice,” he replies, uncertain what else he can possibly add since the woman keeps staring at him expectantly. “We’ve already picked a date for the wedding,” he continues. “But I’m afraid everything else is still a bit of a blur. I’ll let you know as soon as I know for certain, huh?”

He wonders if that was what she expected. He had hoped so, but judging by her expression he thinks maybe not.

“I didn't know you were into men,” Alice says and Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “Although it certainly explains a lot,” she continues and before Mycroft can ask what she means, she carries on. “It certainly explains how you never seemed to understand I was flirting with you, less alone any advances I made.”

Mycroft nearly chokes on his own saliva, but he manages to make it pass as if he was simply clearing his throat, too polite to ask the question he's thinking: _Aren't you married?_ “Anyway, don't let these old men convince you otherwise: marriage is a wonderful thing.”

Says the woman who's been making advances on him while married. “Thank you, Alice,” he says and she smiles, before disappearing down the hall.

Well, that was…

Yes, definitely something he does not want to think about.

* * *

 

“It's no laughing matter!” Mycroft protests, throwing a napkin in his companion's direction, which just prompts more laughter out of Gregory.

“It is, a little,” his _fiancé_ argues jokingly. “How can you miss someone making advances on you for three years?”

“First of all, there's no guarantee she's been making advances on me since we meet--”

“Oh darling, if someone is thinking of getting you in bed, they start trying very early on.”

“Secondly,” Mycroft continues, ignoring Gregory's words because they're pointedly not true: Mycroft would love to get Gregory in bed (and not like they did last night) and yet has made no advances in the three years they've known each other. “ _She's married._ Surely that counts for something?”

Gregory shrugs non committedly. “Alright, I suppose I can give you that,” his companion agrees, smiling. “But seriously, you never even suspected?”

Mycroft shakes his head vehemently. “I don't… I thought we had already established I don't have any experience on this dating business?”

Gregory stares at him, eyes soft. “Any experience? Seriously?”

Mycroft shrugs. How can he begin to explain that before Gregory he never had much interest in other human beings in general? Not enough to risk getting hurt, at least. “My parents didn't approve of my sexuality,” he says, which is partially true. “And after I left their house… I had other things.” Which is also partially true, but still not the full truth.

Gregory’s eyes go even more impossibly soft. “Oh dear, I’m sorry,” he says, resting a hand on Mycroft’s knee and while every instinct in his body is urging him to pull away, Mycroft stays put. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have that much experience in dating either.”

Mycroft snorts. “Now that’s not something I believe.”

Gregory laughs good naturedly. “I’m serious! I… no, forget it. You probably don’t wanna hear stories of my long gone youth.”

 _Oh, but he does._ “You’re not that old, Gregory. You’re just a couple years my senior. And all those grey hairs… they give you an extra charm.” His companion snorts and Mycroft chuckles amusedly. “I mean it,” he assures him earnestly, this time him being the one reaching out for the other’s knee.

Gregory smiles, eyes fixed on Mycroft’s hand, making him feel slightly self conscious. Did he crossed some invisible line? Gregory reached for him first, surely-- “Well, if you really want to know, I suppose I could tell you,” his companions says after a brief pause, looking up once more. “That is, if you don’t find my sad love life entirely too pedestrian to be of any real interest to you.”

Mycroft smiles. “We’re engaged, Gregory. Your _sad love life_ is of utter interest to me,” he says in what he hopes comes across as a playful matter, a little terrified he’s giving himself away. They are engaged, true, but it’s not a _real_ engagement, so--

“Alright,” Greg agrees, taking a sip from his beer, not quite meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “I was engaged once before, you know? I was… nineteen, I think? We were very young. Stupidly young. Just out of school, neither with any real plans but we fancied ourselves _madly in love._ Jossie was-- well, she was my first girlfriend ever, and you know how one can get about first loves.”

Mycroft most pointedly does not, but he doesn’t say so. “Did you come to your senses before the marriage took place?” he asks, softly, wondering if something similar will happen this time. What if Gregory realizes what an stupid mistake he’s making right before actually marrying Mycroft? It’d be terrible for so many reasons, nevermind his broken heart.

“Not exactly,” his companion says, making a face. “Right before starting Uni, I went with my mom and dad to visit grandma, back in France. I left for a couple of weeks and when I came back… Jossie had met someone.” He laughs, but its bitter and Mycroft feels a flash of annoyance. Who in their right mind will find someone else when they have Gregory Lestrade for themselves? “So you know… it sort of made me lose my faith in _love and happily ever afters._ ” He shrugs casually and Mycroft finds himself leaning closer, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how. “Afterwards… well, as Sally pointed out the other day, going out a couple of times with someone and snogging them silly isn’t really a relationship, so there.”

Mycroft nods, processing this. “So you haven’t actually dated since then?”

“Nop,” Gregory says, popping the last letter. “I do work entirely too much and dating another copper… well, it hasn’t worked out. The few women I’ve asked outside work where quite put out I had to cancel or change plans too often and men… I’ve always sucked at flirting with men.” Mycroft can’t help the laugh that escapes him and his companion chuckles good naturedly. “I’m serious!” Gregory protests, still chuckling. “I can never tell if they’re flirting back, I’m always wondering if it’s all in my head and I always chicken out before asking.” He takes another sip of his beer, gaze far away. “It amuses Sally to no end.”

Mycroft smiles, patting his _fiancé’s_ knee compationately. “Well, as we’ve already established, I can’t tell when someone is flirting with me either, so we make quite a pair.” He laughs, slightly awkward, slightly nervous. “Someone would have to go ahead and kiss me and even then I might not get the message.”

Gregory’s eyes are fixed on the hand resting on his knee once more, a most curious expression on his face. He looks up suddenly, meeting Mycroft’s eyes and his breath catches, all too aware of the electric pulse between them. What the hell is going on?

Gregory leans forward, just the slightest bit and Mycroft’s heart skips a beat. Panic seizes him up as the image of his companion leaning even forward, pressing his lips to his comes forefront in his mind and he stands up, entirely too quickly, entirely too unsubtle, but he finds he can’t bear the closeness.

Gregory blinks, looking up to him with a confused expression. “Everything alright?” he asks warily, expression guarded.

“Yes, I’m just… all out of wine,” Mycroft says, finishing his glass in once gulp. “I’ll be right back.”

His companion nods, although he looks unconvinced. Thankfully he doesn’t press and Mycroft hurries to retreat to the kitchen, where he pours himself another glass of wine which he hurries to drink.

Good god, what was he thinking? Did he honestly thought Gregory was about to kiss him? What a fanciful thought! Of course that’s not what was going to happen. It’s not like that. Their relationship has never been like that. There’ve been plenty chances for Gregory to make a move and he hasn’t so…

Then again…

But no. Tonight’s conversation has done nothing but fuel his silly hopes and yet he mustn’t allow himself to believe the impossible. There’s just too much hanging on this little ruse of theirs going well and he won’t risk scaring the other man away for something that clearly is never going to happen.

He pours himself another glass and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He can do this. He just needs to focus, to remember none of this is _real_ and he’ll be fine.

Easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Next update might take slightly longer once more, since I’m off work this whole week and I have little time to write when I’m at home but well… we’ll see ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m so so sorry for the late update! Last week was total chaos at work (change of administration) and I was without internet for two whole days, so I couldn’t write one bit. Also, I was a little under the weather due the changes and what they might mean.  
> Anyway, here, have an extra long chapter to make up for the wait! Enjoy!

The first thing Greg notices upon waking up is that he’s warm. He snuggles closer to the source of warmth, earning himself a contented hum from his bedmate and he smiles, sinking his nose in his companion’s neck.

It smells of the awfully expensive perfume Mycroft wears (he might have or have not searched online for it), mixed with something much more earthy and natural. A part of his brain informs him there’s something wrong with this whole scenario, but he’s entirely too happy and relaxed to care overly much.

He idly wonders how he ended up in this situation. It’s been way too long since he slept with someone; almost a whole year. After things fell apart with Stella (if that can be called “falling apart”. He supposes it was a mutual agreement break up, if such thing actually exists) he hadn’t really been in the mood for looking for someone else and, as Sally had wisely pointed out at the time, he was way too hung up on his  _ minor government official  _ to properly date anyone.

He realizes, perhaps a tad belatedly, that there’s something that doesn’t quite fit. His bedmate does smell an awful lot like Mycroft and it’s not like Greg knows any other people in the habit of buying that particular expensive perfume. Also, there’s the fact that he’s fully clothed; judging by the texture of his pants, he’s actually wearing pajamas. If he had somehow hooked up with someone, surely there’d be no clothes involved?

He blinks awake reluctantly, so he can see who’s this mysterious person he’s spooning and his heart promptly stops in his chest. As it turns out, his bedmate is in fact the man he’s been fantasizing about for quite a while and he distantly wonders if he’s not actually dreaming: a dream within a dream of sorts.

But no, Mycroft feels solid enough, his back pressed to Greg’s front. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with their current positions either, given the contented smile on his lips, although maybe he’s just having a particularly pleasant dream: maybe he’s dreaming he’s being held by someone he actually likes.

Greg holds back a sigh, afraid of disturbing his companion. Memories start to come back slowly as the sleepiness fades. He remembers waking up in a similar position just the day before and he remembers the deep embarrassment he felt; he should have been able to stay on his own side of the bed, but--

He had meant to pull away immediately, he really had. But just as right now, he had gotten distracted by the warmth of his companion, by his comforting and calming presence. It’d be so easy to go back to sleep now, he thinks and it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong  _ per se _ , not really, so--

Another memory comes forward and he can’t help flinching a bit. What was he thinking, really? He had allowed himself to get swept by a fantasy, a silly hope that he had no business entertaining. It has always been evident Mycroft isn’t open to his advances, but their conversation had made him think perhaps that wasn’t the case after all. But then the other man had practically flown the room, looking somewhere between horrified and terrified and Greg’s heart had dropped to his feet.

What an idiot he was.

Luckily, Mycroft hadn’t brought the subject up when he came back from the kitchen. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to embarrass Greg further, maybe he had just been too uncomfortable to discuss it. He tells him he has little to none experience and Greg practically jumps him? No, that was a terrible idea.

He buries his nose deeper in his companion’s neck, although something tells him that’s a terrible idea too. But Mycroft smells amazing, he’s always thought so and having him this close… well, can anyone really blame him?

“Gregory.” Greg practically jumps away, but Mycroft holds tight to the arm he has somehow wrapped around his middle, making a displeased noise before pressing back, closer to him once more. He’s asleep, Greg realizes, as he contemplates the look of utter bliss on Mycroft’s face, wondering what he’s dreaming about.

It won’t do to let his little fantasies get away from him once more.

And yet--

* * *

 

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Mycroft groans, bringing the covers to his face. Greg chuckles, thinking he looks adorable, amused by the thought of what Mycroft would say if he said as much. “Come on,” he insists, shaking his companion’s shoulder. “You said you’d come along on my morning run, remember?”

Mycroft huffs, burying himself deeper in the covers and Greg ignores the wave of longing that hits him. If any of this was real, he’d worm his way under the covers, coming up with a better way to properly wake up his partner.  

“Come on gorgeous,” he insists, whispering against Mycroft’s ear. “There’ll be delicious pastries at the end, remember?”

Mycroft makes a sound that Greg would qualify as  _ interested.  _ “Pastries?” he repeats sleepily, the top of his face peeking from underneath the fluffy covers. “Like yesterday's?”

It’s adorably cute how inarticulate his normally very proper  _ friend  _ is this early in the morning. “Yes, dear,” he promises, running his fingers through Mycroft’s now messy curls. He’s quite a sight, this early in the morning, all his usual barriers down, without even the protection of his fancy and elegant suits.

“Umm,” Mycroft murmurs, snuggling with the covers once more. “Too early. Get back in bed.”

Greg chuckles, amused. “It’s six o’clock, darling.”

“Ungodly hour to be awake,” Mycroft murmurs. “Get back in bed with me, dear. It’s cozier.” His eyes are tightly close and Greg suspects he’s not actually even remotely awake. Surely he wouldn’t have said such things if he was?

He soon finds he can not continue sitting on the bed like this, with Mycroft so close and the temptation of getting under the covers and snuggling for a little longer hanging in the air. “I’ll bring you more croissants,” he promises softly, leaning to place a kiss to his companion’s head without actually realizing what he’s doing. 

Mycroft hums contently, murmuring something under his breath as he pulls the covers closer to himself. Greg can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to his lips and he nearly leans down for another stolen kiss, although (un)luckily, his good sense kicks in before he does. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.

A soft snore coming from his companion is his only answer.

* * *

 

“Well, someone is in a good mood this morning.”

Greg rolls his eyes, not bothering to look up from his work, already imagining Sally’s smug look. Not one to be easily deterred, Sally doesn’t move, simply continues leaning against the top of his cubicle, watching him.

“Was there anything you needed, Donovan?” he asks, in his best formal tone and the woman rolls her eyes fondly, before dropping a file on his desk, nearly upsetting the contents of his coffee mug. Greg would glare, but he soon finds he can’t summon enough annoyance to do so.

Sally is right. He’s in a good mood this morning, just as he’s been for the last few days; just as he’s been ever since he got to wake up in Mycroft Holmes’ bed.

“That’s the forensic report,” Sally replies. “Anderson finished much earlier than expected.”

That’s good, Greg thinks, surveying it absentmindedly. It doesn’t throw much light in his current case, truth to be told, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Now, if—

He realizes, perhaps a little too late, that Sally is still leaning against the cubicle, watching him entirely too closely. “Was there anything else you needed, Donovan?”

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course there was something else! I want to know  _ EVERYTHING _ .” Greg opens his mouth, with the vague idea of telling her it’s none of her business and that they’re working for Christ’s sake, but Sally cuts him off before he can utter a single word. “And, since you’re going to say something about not being professional-- Lunch?”

Greg rolls his eyes, but nods, figuring that’s for the best. Sally grins, before producing what looks like a magazine from behind the official papers she’s carrying. “Good. Because I’ve also seen a couple of locations I want to discuss with you. We need to start making reservations, if this wedding is really going to take place on March.”

Greg would groan, but that probably would only encourage her. Sally grins, finally disappearing down the hall and Greg ignores the curious glances he’s getting from the people in the surrounding cubicles.

On one hand, the wedding can’t come soon enough, so Sally can stop coming up with ways to tease him about it.

On the other… well.

Better not to think too much about it.

* * *

 

 

It’s ridiculous, the amount of things wedding preparations include. By next Friday, Greg feels like his head is about to explode and Sally isn’t helping the matter, nevermind she keeps insisting _ she is. _ He does not particularly care one way or another which flowers they get and he doesn’t understand why anyone would.

But Sally keeps asking things and Greg keeps not having answers and it’s getting increasingly frustrating. “I’m going to hire a wedding planner,” Greg announces around a mouthful of sandwich. "They can handle it all.”

Sally rolls her eyes. “But wedding planning is half of the fun!” she protests, grinning when Greg glares at her. “And since that’s all the fun you’re getting from this particular wedding--“

“Sally--“

“You’re not even going to go on a honeymoon! Since you’re not actually having sex, I suppose it’s to be expected but--“

“Sal, please--“

“You could still enjoy a couple of weeks away, somewhere nice. God knows your fiancé can afford it,” she carries on, undeterred. “I’d take advantage of that inheritance, if I was you.”

Greg takes a deep breath, willing himself not to say anything nasty. “I’m not marrying him for his money.”

“I know! You’re marrying him because you’re a self sacrificing fool, but no one said--“

“Sal--“ Before Greg can continue arguing with her though, his phone rings. Greg makes a face, thinking another murder is the perfect way to end his week, but the annoyance the idea brings quickly disappears, being replaced by concern when he sees the caller’s ID. “Hold on a sec,” he tells Sally, standing up and taking the call, ignoring the woman’s curious stare.

“Hey Mycroft,” he greets, trying to keep his tone light, not betraying his concern. “How’s work?”

“I’m going to murder someone,” his fiancé announces, deadly serious and Greg can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “I’m serious,” Mycroft insists, but there’s some playfulness in his tone now, making Greg laugh some more. “Are you doubting my word, Gregory Lestrade?”

“Never,” he replies with a smile, catching Sally’s amused expression from the corner of his eye. “Is there… did you need anything?” he asks,still smiling.

A sigh. “Actually, yes. I was planning on picking up Sherlock later today.” Greg had no idea that was going to happen, but while he supposes a little warning would have been nice, it doesn’t really matter. “I’m afraid I’m going to be held back at work, though.”

_ Oh.  _ “You… want me to pick him up?” he asks, hesitant, unsure of how he feels about the idea. It’s a long trip, of course and there’s also the fact that he barely knows Sherlock, so—

“Could you?” Mycroft asks, voice soft and tender and how can Greg say no to that?

“Of course,” he agrees, with a confidence he doesn’t really feel. “I’ll go pick him up and we’ll see you back home… later, probably.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Mycroft says, earnest. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

A couple of images of how he could  _ make it up to him  _ come unbidden to his mind and Greg scowls at nothing in particular, telling himself to get his mind out of the gutter. “It’s no problem,” he assures him and after receiving another thanks for his troubles, Mycroft hangs up, claiming he needs to get back to work.

“Everything alright?” Sally asks, expression worried and Greg just stares at her for a beat, still processing what has just happened.

“Yes… I… umm… something came up,” he says, biting his lip. “I need to go. You can keep on torturing me next week,” he says, picking up his jacket and Sally watches him for a beat, before dropping enough money on the table to pay their bill and following him out.

“I’m coming with you,” she announces, deadly serious and Greg can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to his lips.

He could use a companion right now. He really could.

* * *

 

 

“Considering the brother is the whole reason why you’re marrying, I can’t believe you had forgotten.”

“I hadn’t!” Greg defends, his tone slightly hysterical. “I just… I sort of…” he sighs, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. “I don’t know, Sal. I mean—I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

“Perfectly logical,” Sally states, taking a sip from the coffee they bought before hitting the road. “I mean, normally, one has 9 months to get used to the idea of a little demon running loose in your house.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Sal, that’s not--“

“And teenagers! So full of teenage angst and messy hormones. Ugh!” she shudders dramatically and a chuckle escapes Greg. “Just you wait. Before the month is over you’ll be dragged into some teenage drama of epic proportions. Even all your sad silent pining won’t be a match for your in-law’s teenage angst.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Sherlock struck me as a very serious teen,” he states and Sally arches an eyebrow. “I doubt he has any interest in any drama.”

“Oh, poor, innocent Greg. So terribly naïve.”

“You don’t have siblings. Or children. What do you know of teenage angst?”

“I was full of it,” Sally replies flippantly. “According to my mom, it was damn lucky she couldn’t have any more kids after me. She didn’t think she’d have survived.”

“I’m sure she was exaggerating,” Greg dismisses. “You were a joy, no doubt about it.”

Sally smirks, patting his knee affectionately. “Just remember: you’ll always have a place in my couch, if it ever feels like too much.”

Greg rolls his eyes once more. “I doubt it’ll be necessary,” he says.

But he’ll keep it mind anyway.

* * *

 

 

“And who is this young lady?” Mrs. Hudson asks, once they’ve finally made it to the Holmes manor. The nanny/housekeeper greets them at the door, arms crossed over her chest, shooting daggers at Sally who’s clinging to Greg’s arms after she nearly tripped on their way to the house.

“This is Sally,” Greg introduces her. “She’s my… we work together,” he amends. Defining his relationship with Sally is tricky on the best of days and calling her  _ his friend  _ will only make her insufferable.

Sally smiles, offering her hand to shake. Mrs. Hudson takes it, looking at her up and down before turning to Greg. “These poor boys haven’t had the easiest lives,” she tells him very seriously, her eyes boring into him. “But they care too much and too quickly. You hurt them and you’ll regret it, understand?”

“I--“

“Mrs. Hudson, please,” Sherlock says, appearing out of thin air. “If anything, their relationship is more sibling-like than romantic.” He comes to stand by the door, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re late,” he announces and Greg blinks.

“Ah, yes, well, your brother--“

“Is busy, as usual,” Sherlock interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “I suppose you’ll do. All my things are packed up and ready to go.”

Oh. It hadn’t occurred Greg they might be taking things with them. He throws once glance at his car, thinking of it’s small truck and then turns to Sherlock, an embarrassed smile on his lips. “Sorry, I didn’t--“

“Clearly,” Sherlock interrupts again, with a roll of his eyes. “I shall take just the essentials, yes?” and with that he’s back inside the house, ignoring Greg’s confused stare and Mrs. Hudson’s fond smile.

“He’s a little… he doesn’t deal well with authority,” the woman says, smiling gently. “But it’ll get better, you’ll see. Don’t let his attitude discourage you.”

Greg smiles or at least attempts to. Next to him, Sally murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like  _ teenage angst  _ and Greg holds back a groan.

How did his life come to this?

* * *

 

 

“Essentials? Essentials?!” Greg questions, as he loads the car with a couple of boxes marked as fragile. “I’m fairly sure your lab equipment could have waited for a proper moving ban.”

“And risk those brutes breaking something?” Sherlock scoffs, watching him, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not a chance in hell. Besides, how else do you expect me to entertain myself?”

“I don’t know. Telly?”

Sherlock scoffs once more. “My brother’s taste in men is abysmal,” he declares dramatically, rolling his eyes.  _ “Telly _ , he says. No wonder Mycroft’s brain is roothing.”

“Now, just a minute—“

“Oh, I wouldn’t argue with him, Sergeant,” Mrs. Hudson intervenes, smiling at them. “Once he’s made up his mind… like a dog with a bone, this one.” She pinches Sherlock’s cheeks fondly, earning herself an indignant yelp from the teen and an amused giggle from Sally. “Don’t forget your noise-cancelling headphones, darling,” she continues, addressing Sherlock. “There are things about older siblings we’re better off not knowing—what they do at night with their fiancés is certainly among them.”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock exclaims, scandalized, cheeks aflame and the woman has the gall to throw a wink in Greg’s direction. For his part, the detective blushes furiously, attempting and failing not to show his embarrassment.

“Oh yes, this one and his fiancé get up to all sort of crazy things,” Sally says, giggling. “You wouldn’t want to know, kid.”

Greg blushes some more, throwing a dark glare in the woman’s direction. Sally smiles innocently and to his endless horror, Mrs. Hudson offers him a knowing smile, patting his arm. “Ah, such a lovely thing to be young and in love,” she says wistfully. “If you ever need some pointers, I used to—“

“Mrs. Hudson, please,” Sherlock says pleadingly, expression desperate and Greg’s fairly certain his face is burning by now. Sally, the traitor, continues giggling, evidently amused by the whole ordeal.

“Good old days,” Mrs. Hudson declares solemnly. “Now, go pick your headphones, dear.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but obeys, leaving the adults behind. Mrs. Hudson offers to make them some more coffee to go and disappears back into the house, leaving Greg with the traitor that calls herself  _ his friend. _

“Your face!” Sally exclaims, laughing maniacally now. “Oh god, that was precious!”

Greg knows by now that sometimes, ignoring Sally is the best policy.

No matter how hard it is, from time to time.

* * *

 

 

The trip back to London is fairly unremarkable. Sally, having gotten her daily dose of amusement at Greg’s expense, makes idle chit chat with Sherlock, mostly fishing for information on the family. Sally is good,  _ very good  _ at interrogations, but Sherlock is even better at avoiding questions he does not want to answer.

It’s amusing, to say at least.

By the end of the trip they’re trading light banter, mostly on Greg’s (and to an extend, Mycroft’s) expense, he soon finds. He chooses not to intervene, though, figuring it can not possibly hurt that those two get along well, considering they’re both likely to be fixated figures in Greg’s life, at least for the next two years.

He ignores the way his heart constricts inside his chest at the reminder of his time with Mycroft being limited. He recalls Mrs. Hudson’s good natured jokes and he blushes once more; a part of him thinking it’s a real pity Sherlock won’t be needing his noise-cancelling headphones after all.

Ah, what he’d give to--

But no. And honestly, he needs to stop thinking about that, unless he wants to hurt himself further.

“--not like I’ll be needing them,” Sherlock is saying and Greg notices Sally is holding those noise-cancelling headphones, examining them. “Even if they were doing that, Mycroft is too much of a prude to make any noise.”

And that’s something Greg doesn’t want to think about. Or maybe he does, but not while driving, with his traitorous friend as copilot and his future brother-in-law in the back. “Can we not-- Sherlock, please--“

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sally says, because she’s a traitor and she likes teasing Greg entirely too much. “Tales of Greg’s sexual exploits have lead me to believe--“

“Donovan!” he yells, his cheeks aflame once more. “That’s not-- I don’t-- cut it out, would you?”

Sally giggles and from the rear-view mirror, Greg catches Sherlock scrunching his nose in distaste. “Way too much information,” he declares, shaking his head. “Does my brother know that the tales of your sexual encounters have spread across your working place?” he asks and now he’s just reeling him and Sally is still laughing and god, what did he do to deserve this?

“I’m not talking to either of you,” he declares and he snatches the headphones from Sally’s hands. “In fact,” he says, putting them on. “I’m not hearing another word of this conversation.”

“Most unwise,” Sally says, stealing them back. “Dangerous to drive like that, boss. You wouldn’t want to crash, would you? Not even if it put you out of your misery.” Greg glares and Sally laughs. “Put this away, kid. Greg can be a bit of a kleptomaniac too, when it comes to technology.”

“I--“

“Charming,” Sherlock deadpans, taking the headphones, eyes alight with amusement. “A thief and a sex addict. As I said before, my brother’s taste leaves much to be desired.” Sally laughs again and Greg glares at the road, thinking they can’t make it back to London soon enough.

What a night.

* * *

 

 

“A lousy cook too,” Sherlock says, finishing the last of the reheated pasta Greg feed him as “dinner”. “Your list of charms is never ending, Lestrade. No wonder my brother is so hung on you.”

_ If only,  _ Greg thinks. “I asked you if you wanted to order in,” he defends himself, although, as defenses go, he supposes it’s a lousy one.

Sherlock huffs, twirling his fork absentmindedly. “I wasn’t very hungry,” the teen replies. “It didn’t mean you could feed me crap, but I guess I’ll have to make that clear next time, won’t I?”

Greg sighs. Right, time for a serious conversation. “Listen, Sherlock,” he begins and realizes he has no idea how to continue. “I… You… Your brother and I are getting married,” he states, because he supposes that’s true enough. Sherlock makes a face, but doesn’t argue. “Now, I know the situation isn’t… I know it’s not something you expected and it’s going to take a while for you to get used to it, but you’re going to live with us and I… I want this to work, alright?”

Sherlock stares at him for a beat, head tilted to the side. “What’s  _ this _ , exactly?” he asks, sounding honest and Greg sighs once more, gesturing around them helplessly.

“ _ This _ ,” he says, gesturing at his surroundings. “I… I care a great deal about your brother. And I know he loves you with all his heart,”  _ he’s marrying me because of that, after all.  _ “So I want us to get along. And I… I understand if you don’t… but I want us to try, alright?”

Sherlock hums, tapping his fingers against the table. “Because you love my brother. And you want him to be happy.”

Greg wonders, very briefly, if lying to Sherlock about the nature of their “relationship” is a bad idea. It’s not something he discussed with Mycroft, although he supposes that the way he introduced him to Sherlock should give him an idea of what the other man is thinking.  _ My fiancé,  _ he had said.  _ The love of your life,  _ Sherlock had joked and Mycroft had nodded tightly.

Good god. “Yes,” he says and it’s not really a lie, is it? He does love Mycroft and he does want him to be happy.

Sherlock hums. “You need to understand that our relationship is… difficult,” the teen says, a contemplative look on his face. “But I do want him to be happy. And if you can make him happy… well, that’s fine by me,” he says with a firm nod. “But you should know I’m unlikely to  _ like you  _ although I’ll do my best to  _ tolerate _ you.”

Greg scowls, unhappy. “I don’t want you to be miserable, Sherlock,” he says, extending a hand and placing it over the teen’s tentatively. “I want us to get along.”

“Oh boy,” Sherlock says, pulling away, a most curious expression on his face. “Well, I can tell you you’re doing much better than Mummy ever did-- at least you want to try,” he scrunches his nose in displeasure, but quickly smoothens down his expression, just as Mycroft does when they discuss a  _ touchy  _ subject. “I make no promises,” Sherlock says and he offers him a small smile that Greg returns.

“Good,” he says, figuring that’s the best he can do for tonight. Before he can say anything else, his phone rings, making him pull it out and curse softly after reading the text. “Damn it,” he murmurs sourly, already calling Sally. “Sal, we’ve got another one.”

Sally curses and agrees to meet Greg at the crime scene. That’s when Greg realizes he has a charge now and he can’t simply rush into crime scenes, not without making arrangements. Where the hell is he going to get a nanny now?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says, jumping down from the stool, grabbing his coat. “I’ll go with you.”

No. No, that’s a big no. He’s fairly certain his boss won’t approve and Mycroft-- “I’ll behave,” Sherlock promises. “You won’t even notice I’m there.”

Greg has a lot to learn, when it comes to parenting.

And so he takes Sherlock along, with the firm intention of making him wait at the car, since crime scenes aren’t places for teens and figuring he’ll call Mycroft later, see if he can pick him up once he’s done with work.

Oh, he has so much to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> We know Sherlock knows it’s all fake, but Greg doesn’t so that’s… that’s fun, I suppose ;) I hope that the transitions between scenes didn’t feel rushed and I hope you liked the chapter over all!  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that? Another update in one week! I’m on fire I tell you! Not even my little detour with a short one-shot (that you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16887348)) managed to distract me long enough ;)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So, without further ado, enjoy!

“And here he is! In one piece, just as a said.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, thinking _in one piece_ is a generous approximation. He takes in the dirt covering his brother’s face and his torn up coat, along with the slash on his left cheek and he takes a deep breath, willing himself not to lose his temper.

“You took my brother to a crime scene. What’s worse, you allowed him to _chase after a murderer_ \--”

“I did not--”

“He was getting away!” Sherlock interrupts loudly, arms crossed over his chest, a very put off expression on his face. “And Lestrade didn’t _let me_ do anything. He locked me up in the car, actually,” he says, a mighty pout on his lips.

“See? I told you I didn’t--” Gregory starts, but Mycroft is not one to be easily placated.

“You still brought him to a crime scene!”

“He promised to behave!”

“And you believed him?!”

“Of course he did! He has gullible idiot written all over him! Why would he be marrying you otherwise?” Sherlock says, still pouting and both adults turn to glare at him.

“You’re not helping your case, brother dear,” Mycroft says, crossing his arms over his chest. “What if you had been injured, huh? What then? I can’t-- I don’t--”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock defers, probably sensing how close Mycroft is to an emotional outburst. “I was perfectly safe the whole time. On your fiancé’s defense, he has good instincts and decent reflexes.”

“High praise,” Gregory says, slightly amused and Mycroft sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Next time-- next time please call me before taking Sherlock with you, alright?”

“I don’t think I will be bringing him along ever again, but sure, if--”

“What do you mean you won’t be taking me? You wouldn’t have captured your murderer without my help! You’d be lost without me! Your and your coworkers’ incompetence nearly--”

“That’s quite enough, young man,” Donovan says, showing up out of thin air. “Let’s give these two some space to talk things through, alright? Let the adults figure things out.”

“Considering how oblivious they both are--” Sherlock begins, but the rest of his words get lost as Donovan takes him away, one hand firmly on his back as she guides him away. Mycroft takes a deep breath, thankful for the woman’s intervention, thinking this is really a conversation best have without Sherlock’s input.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Gregory says, expression open and earnest. “I didn’t mean-- You know it wasn’t my intention to get him in any danger. But I had to come and I couldn’t leave him alone-- although it retrospective that might have less dangerous-- and I honestly didn’t think he’d know how to pick the car’s damn lock--”

“That’s my fault,” Mycroft interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “I should have warned you about Sherlock’s… abilities. Breaking in and out of cars is probably one of the least worrisome ones, now that I think about it.”

Gregory nods slowly. “Right. That’s… that’s… I don’t know what to say to that.” Mycroft offers his a wry smile and the other man smiles tentatively. “You taught him to pick the locks, didn’t you?” he asks and Mycroft shrugs non committedly.

“I know better than to answer any questions without my lawyer,” Mycroft replies airly, smiling mischievously and his companion chuckles, amused. Just like that, the tension vanishes between them, although Mycroft’s concerns aren’t completely appeased, not just yet at least.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Gregory repeats after a brief pause. “Maybe... we need to set some ground rules with Sherlock.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Good luck with that. My brother is as headstrong as they come.”

“We’ll figure out something,” Gregory says, waving a hand dismissively, as if it was truly that easy. It warms something in Mycroft, a sense of relief at not being alone in this washing over him, although he knows it’s a dangerous feel. “But it’s a subject for tomorrow, I think. I’m beat right now.”

Mycroft nods. He’s tired too, of course, but he doubts he’ll be getting any sleep right now. Still-- “Let’s go, then. Unless you’re needed…?”

“Sal can handle it from here,” he declares solemnly, his lips curving upwards briefly. “It’s good practice for her.”

Ms. Donovan is unlikely to appreciate it, Mycroft thinks, but who knows? She is indeed quite career-driven and determined to reach for the top, so maybe she’ll appreciate the practice.

In any case, Mycroft does want to take his brother and fiancé back home _right now,_ so he’s not particularly concerned about fairness.

“I’ll meet you at my car,” he informs him and then turns to look for his brother. “You should let Ms. Donovan take yours, since she’s staying late.” There. He’s not being completely inconsiderate, is he?

Gregory smiles, probably knowing what he’s doing but nods before heading for Ms. Donovan and Sherlock, who’re deep in conversation. He had thought it unlikely Sherlock would particularly come to _like_ Gregory, let alone any of his co workers, but he obviously underestimated his (perhaps a little morbid) fascination with crimes.

He probably should keep a closer eye on him, now that he thinks about it.

That could quickly get problematic.

* * *

 

_We’ll figure out something._

It’s such a simple statement, really. Some people might say he’s overthinking it and perhaps he is, to an extend, because he has no way of knowing if Gregory meant what he thinks he meant, maybe he meant an entirely different thing--

This is why he doesn’t do interpersonal relationships. So often people say things they don’t mean; it’s so easy to apply meaning to careless statement, so easy to put your trust on the wrong person--

That’s why he prefers being alone. At least that way he knows what to expect.

“Are you planning on coming to bed at all?”

The unexpected sound startles him, making him drop his glass. Mycroft curses softly as the liquid spreads across the marble floor, soaking his sock-clad feet. “Sorry,” Gregory says, appearing at his side and carefully kneeling down to pick up the bigger glass shards. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Mycroft shakes his head, kneeling down to whip the floor with a bunch of napkins. “I was lost in thought,” he replies, ignoring the frenetic beat of his heart. “No need to apologise.”

Gregory hums, throwing the glass shards away, gesturing for Mycroft to stay put while he gets the broom. Mycroft remains where he is, considering the merits of pouring himself another drink or just going back to bed.

Gregory comes back, having made a quick stop at their bedroom to get him a pair of dry socks. Mycroft nods in thanks and watches as the other man cleans; he knows he should offer to help, it’s only polite seeing he was the one who made that mess, but--

“So, what’s on your mind?” Gregory says, tone soft and gentle, as if speaking to an spook animal. Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would resent it a little, but right now his wounded pride is the least of his problems.

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses, but Gregory throws him _a look_ and he sighs. “It’s just-- I know Sherlock is safe, but I can’t stop thinking… if something had happened… if…” Gregory opens his mouth and Mycroft raises a hand to silence him, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize again. It’s really not your fault. I should… I shouldn’t have…”

“Mycroft,” Gregory interrupts, still gentle, approaching him tentatively. “If it isn’t my fault, then it isn’t yours neither. We both have jobs and sometimes--”

“I should have been here. I should--”

“Mycroft, please,” his companion interrupts, grabbing him by the wrist. “I understand the whole thing was… I understand why you’re upset. I was worried too, believe me, I was scared to death when I noticed Sherlock wasn’t in the car but… it all went well. It doesn’t make it right, of course, but he’s safe now and we’ll come up with a plan to stop him from doing something that reckless ever again.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Well, no one said parenting is an easy job,” Gregory agrees, his thumb pressed to Mycroft’s pulse point, squeezing reassuringly. “But we’ll figure it out. We’re in this together, right?”

It occurs Mycroft that they are indeed and he’s not so sure how he feels about it. It’s one thing to ask Gregory to be his fake fiancé, but this-- “You don’t need to--”

“I want to,” his companion interrupts, squeezing his wrist once more and Mycroft nods slowly, not quite daring to believe this is real just yet. He thinks he might be dreaming, but it’s a lovely dream and he does not wish to find out it’s not real.

“Thank you,” he says softly, looking down at their connected hands. That seems to make Gregory feel self conscious and he starts to pull away, but Mycroft hurries to grasp his companion’s hand in his, the contact oddly steadying.

“You're welcome,” Gregory replies after a beat, gazing at their entwined hands too. The moment feels… tense, in a way, but not in a _bad_ way. It feels like they’re standing on the edge of something, something good and important and yet--

“We should go to bed,” Mycroft says and blushes furiously right away. Luckily, as if on cue, his companion yawns, evidently tired and so he probably missed how embarrassing his phrasement was.

“Yes,” Gregory agrees. “Need to be up early, ‘m afraid. I was thinking we could do breakfast, but now I’m stuck with work.”

Mycroft shrugs, allowing himself to be pulled into the bedroom, following after his companion, still holding hands. “We have many Saturdays ahead of us. We have time.”

“Yes,” Gregory agrees quietly, something off with his tone and he finally lets go, seeing they’re now standing by the bed. “I-- You do know I’ve been cuddling you in my sleep, right?”  Mycroft blinks, surprised by the question and the tone, but he nods slowly. “Right. Well. Umm… maybe we could try that now? Maybe it’ll help you sleep.”

Mycroft blinks once more, feeling much like a deer caught in the highlights. He enjoys their nightly embraces, perhaps a little too much, but he hadn’t thought they’d ever acknowledge them out loud, let alone--

“Right. Sorry. Forget I--” and now he’s been quiet for too long and Gregory is getting the wrong idea. That won’t do, not at all.

“I’d love to,” he interrupts and blushes at how _eager_ he sounds. How shameful, to act like this, to react like an overexcited puppy when given the barest scraps of affection. What will Gregory think of him now?

But his companion simply smiles softly and nods, getting in bed and gesturing for Mycroft to join him. He’s probably too tired to notice Mycroft’s eagerness and that reassures him a little. Not everything is lost just yet. Maybe--

And then there are a pair of strong arms surrounding him, pulling him close, their bodies fitting together as if they were puzzle pieces, always meant to be put together and Mycroft finds himself relaxing instantaneously, all his concerns and fears fading to the back of his mind.

 _This is perfect_ , it’s his last thought before succumbing to sleep.

* * *

 

“You can not to do that to me again, Sherlock,” Mycroft says as he serves them breakfast, ignoring his brother’s pout. “You can not. I-- I didn’t-- I thought--” he takes a deep breath, willing himself not to let his emotions get the best of him. “I was worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says and he might sound petulant but Mycroft knows he’s being honest. “I just-- he was right there! And he was getting away and I… I didn’t think. I just acted. As I tend to do,” he adds sulkily, no doubt remembering Mummy’s favorite recrimination.

“Just try not to do it again,” Mycroft says, figuring that’s the best he can hope for and not wishing to dwell on any memories of their mother’s… chastesings. “You’re still a child.”

Sherlock pouts some more, no doubt annoyed at being called _a child_ but he doesn’t protest, instead eating his breakfast in silence. He looks tired too and Mycroft thinks it might be best for them to have a quiet day in, although he had wanted to take Sherlock around the neighborhood, so he could get better acquainted with it. Their parents had never let him visit and all of Mycroft’s descriptions can not possibly be enough for him to get an accurate knowledge of their surroundings and knowing Sherlock… well, the more he knows the neighborhood, the better.

“So… how are you liking your new room?” he asks, after a brief silence and Sherlock rolls his eyes before looking at him directly.

“You know we don’t need to make small talk when we’re eating, right?”

“I wasn’t--”

“But if you really _really_ want to make small talk, maybe we can discuss your giant crush on your fake fiancé and your total inability to actually _do_ something about it?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. He really _really_ doesn’t want to have this conversation, let alone with his little brother. “Sherlock--”

“It’s all kinds of sad,” Sherlock continues, undeterred. “And don’t get me wrong, I still think romance _sucks_ but it amuses me to no end that you-- you of all people-- somehow went and managed to turn your life into a freaking rom com.” He looks at him up and down and scrunches his nose, mostly in teasing, Mycroft suspects. “Not much of a leading lady, are you?”

 _Ungrateful little bastard,_ is Mycroft’s first thought.

 _That’s exactly why this isn’t a rom com,_ it’s his second. _Unlike those movies, this isn’t heading towards a happily ever after._ “You’ve allowed Mrs. Hudson’s taste in movies poison your brain.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock acknowledges, leaning back on his seat precariously, nearly giving Mycroft a heart attack. Doesn’t he see he could fall and break something (like his neck)? “But it has given me insight on this whole romance business, brother dear. So why don’t you save us all from your insufferable pining and go ahead and confess?”

Mycroft huffs, turning his back to his brother and continues making breakfast for himself. “You clearly haven’t learned as much as you think, if you believe confessing will do me any favours.”

“Ugh. For someone who prides himself on being a genius, you can be a total idiot sometimes.” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes dramatically no doubt. “But fine, suit yourself. Amuse me with your ridiculous pining.” Mycroft hears the chair being pushed back and Sherlock landing on the floor, so he turns around once more. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

“Sherlock,” he says, making the teen stop on his way out, half turning to him. “I-- I’m glad you’re here.”

Sherlock’s lips curve upwards just the smallest bit. “Sentimentalism Mycroft, really? That fiancé of yours is rubbing onto you. Probably not in the way you’d want--”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaims, scandalized, cheeks aflame.

Sherlock laughs. “You should have listened to Mrs. Hudson’s teasing. I didn’t know people could turn that red.” And with that he’s out of the kitchen, chuckling to himself.

Mycroft huffs, turning off the stove, abandoning all attempts of cooking.

 _Day one,_ he thinks.

This might be harder than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope you liked it! I’m a little worried about whether or not this is moving at snail pace, but I can’t seem to make it move a bit faster. They’ll get there, but they’re being stubborn ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter! This is more of an interlude than anything else, but I really wanted to write Sherlock’s POV, even if it’s super short ;)  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock isn’t sure he wants to get involved in his brother’s love life.

No, scratch that. He’s 100%  _ certain  _ he does not want to get involved in his brother’s love life. After all, romance is disgusting and adults in love are even bigger idiots than regular adults and really, the last thing Sherlock needs is to complicate his life by trying to play matchmaker.

Nevermind he’d be a brilliant matchmaker. The whole thing will cause him nothing but trouble.

Won’t it?

He tapes his fingers against the table, considering his options. On one hand, if his brother and his fake fiancé actually started dating, they’d probably too busy with each other to concern themselves overly much with Sherlock’s antics, which means he’d practically get away with anything. And even if they weren’t distracted enough, Sherlock could always remind them that it’s thanks to him that they got together and that’d probably make them go easier on him.

On the other hand, they’d probably act disgustingly besotted with one another. They already do, even if they’re both too blind to truly notice and it’s stomach turning, really. Utterly disgusting. Adults in love have no shame whatsoever and Sherlock does not wish to witness his brother getting all affectionate with his (no-longer-fake) fiancé.

Decisions, decisions.

He scrunches his nose in displeasure. It’s lucky he’s not like regular people and so  _ romance  _ holds no interest for him. He hadn’t thought Mycroft would succumb to love’s debatable charms, but he supposes it just goes proving Sherlock is, in fact, much smarter than Mycroft, no matter what his insufferable older brother likes to think. If he can get his brother and his fake-fiancé together, it’ll only be further proof of Sherlock’s superior intellect: he’ll succeed where his brother has failed.

_ Yes,  _ he thinks,  _ that’ll show Mycroft who’s the smartest of the two.  _ Sherlock smiles, pleased with himself, already coming up with plans inside his head. It won’t be easy, he knows, because of all the goldfish in London his brother had to go and pick the most oblivious of them all, but hopefully…

He can do it. And if he can’t… well, then it’s because it simply  _ can’t  _ be done.

Easy as that.

* * *

 

“So, ground rules,” Lestrade says with a confidence he doesn’t really feel. Sherlock arches an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed, but the man carries on undeterred. “First of all, no more running around at crime scenes.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment, simply taking another donut from the package Lestrade brought home and chewing obnoxiously. “Are we really going to do this? Set ground rules that I’m just going to break?”

Lestrade sighs, sending a pleading look in Mycroft’s direction that his brother pretends not to notice as he continues reviewing something on his laptop. Sherlock’s lips twitch amusedly, but he puts on an innocent expression when Lestrade turns to face him once more. “Sherlock, this is for your own safety.”

The teen rolls his eyes once more. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll behave at your crime scenes  _ if  _ you let me review the case files afterwards. The whole file, I mean, not only those parts with the boring bits.”

“What--”

“He means he wants to see the forensic reports too,” Mycroft supplies in what he probably thinks it’s a helpful manner but judging by Lestrade’s expression it really isn’t.

“Absolutely not! Forensic reports--”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Sherlock interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “I could just hack into the Yard’s database, but it’d be much easier for everyone involved if you just gave them to me.”

“What-- that’s-- Mycroft, say something!”

Sherlock smirks and his brother looks up from his laptop finally. “Cold cases,” he says. “Final offer.”

“No, no, wait a minute--” Lestrade starts as Sherlock considers his options.

“Oh, alright,” he concedes. “Cold cases. And if you’re ever stuck with another case-- like yesterday-- I get to help.”

“Sounds fair,” Mycroft says.

“Fair? Fair?! Damn it Mycroft--”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, standing up. “Well, now that that’s settled-- I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try to keep it quiet, alright? I have no interest in listening to your discussion-turned-make-out-session.”

Both Lestrade and his brother sputter indignantly and Sherlock grins, pleased with himself, quickly heading for his room before either of the adults can say a word. He makes sure to lock the door after him, although he doubts either man will come looking for him. It’s clear Lestrade isn’t pleased with the way this “ground rules” business went, but as far as Sherlock is concerned, he’s compromising, so--

He’d never have got away with this back at his parents’ home, naturally, but that’s not here nor there. This is a new house, with new rules and he’s unlikely to get into too much trouble for giving his guardians too much lip. Mycroft would never… and surely he wouldn’t let his fake-fiancé…

_ No _ , Sherlock decides firmly to himself. It’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

 

“School,” Lestrade declares and Sherlock looks at him with abject horror.

“No,” he deadpans. 

“Non negotiable, I’m afraid,” the insufferable man declares, his lips curving upwards just the slightest bit. Of course the  _ sadistic bastard  _ finds it amusing.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock whines, doing his best to sound like the put out toddler his brother would have moved heaven and earth for.

His brother, the traitor, pretends to be busy with his computer. “Non negotiable,” Lestrade repeats, smiling smugly. “Your brother and I will be handling all the administrative stuff first thing on monday morning.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock repeats, stomping his feet a little. His treacherous brother continues to  _ work.  _

“None of that, young man. You need an education and since your brother tells me you tend to disappear on your private tutors, we’ll try our luck with public school.”

Sherlock pouts, by now having figured Mycroft isn’t going to come in his defense. “I hate you,” he announces very seriously and Lestrade grins some more before ruffling his hair affectionately.

“You’ll thank me one of these days,” he tells him and Sherlock snorts. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll make some friends.”

Sherlock snorts once more, crossing his arms over his chest. This, he thinks miserably, is what he gets for trying to be nice. See if he gets them actually together now! That’d be terrible! They’re already siding up against him, imagine if they were an actual couple?

No sir, thank you, but no.

He looks at his brother and his fake-fiancé, who are sharing fond smiles,  _ conspiratorial _ even and Sherlock pouts.

It might rather unavoidable by now, he thinks miserably.

So he might as well resign himself to his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, I just really wanted to write Sherlock’s POV although nothing is truly happening just yet. Still, I hope it has given us some insight on what’s going on inside Sherlock’s head ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter already? Good god, I’m on fire! It seems anxiety over my work situation makes me write like there’s no tomorrow :P  
> Anyway… I hope you’ll enjoy it!

“You’ll spoil him rotten.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically, making Greg smile before remembering this is a serious conversation they need to have and he can not get distracted by Mycroft’s general adorableness, cute quirks and tendency to be dramatic.

“I’m hardly  _ spoiling him rotten, _ ” Mycroft argues. “Encouraging his interests--”

“Sure, if his interests were… I don’t know… cars or motorcycles…”

Mycroft stares at him as if he had grown a second head. “Those death traps? Are you out of your mind? I’d rather have Sherlock interested in murders than attempting to get himself killed--”

“Now, that’s not--”

“Isn’t it? Do you know the statistics--?”

“No, but I suppose you can tell me, Mr. I-work-for-the-Ministry-of-Transport.”

Mycroft pouts. “Let’s not get derailed,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And in any case… we’ve compromised, haven’t we? You’d agree to let him look into those cold cases and I agreed to enroll him at a school of your choosing.” He scrunches his nose in evident displeasure and it takes every bit of Greg’s self control not to kiss said nose. “So, there.”

“You should have just go ahead and kiss each other silly,” Sherlock says, arms crossed over his chest petulantly. “Since it’s clear this compromising-business isn’t really of either of your liking.”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. If someone had told him just two months ago he’d soon be dealing with a sulky teen who’s not technically related to him just because he has a ridiculous  _ stupid  _ crush on his older brother, he’d have never believed it.

And yet, here he is. “Are you ready, young man? Got all your stuff?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. So far he’s complained about practically everything: from the uniform to his backpack to his textbooks, there’s just no winning with Sherlock Holmes. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Sherlock declares. “Let the torture begin.”

Greg huffs. “Drama Queens, the both of you.” Mycroft and Sherlock splutter indignantly but Greg ignores them. “Now, both get into the car. We’ve got an appointment with the Headmistress and we wouldn’t want to be late, huh?”

His companions share a look, but finally Sherlock rolls his eyes and heads for the door, muttering something about meddling guardians. Greg smiles fondly, before turning his attention back to his fiancé. “Trust me, this is a good idea.”

Mycroft pursues his lips, looking slightly worried. “I hope you’re right,” he murmurs before following after his brother. Greg bites his lip, considering.

“I hope that too,” he murmurs to himself.

* * *

 

Greg wasn’t born in London, but he spent most of his school years here. Choosing his old school for his new charge hadn’t been a brainer for him, although he knows nor his  _ fiancé  _ nor said charge are particularly happy with his selection. Still, he remembers his old school fondly: most teachers were good enough and they cared, which he has always thought it’s more important than anything else when it comes to picking a school for your children.

Not that Sherlock is his child, not exactly, but the principle still applies, right?

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” the Headmistress greets, shaking his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, no, I’m-- I’m not-- I’m Greg Lestrade. My fiancé here is Mr. Holmes and he’s Sherlock’s guardian.” It feels odd to call Mycroft his fiancé out loud, particularly in front of a stranger, but he tells himself not to let it show.

“Ah, you’re not Mr. Holmes  _ yet _ ,” the Headmistress says with a wink and Greg blushes furiously. Next to him Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically before slumping against the wall farther away from the woman’s desk. Mycroft throws a look in his brother’s direction and then turns to greet the Headmistress politely. 

“Indeed,” he agrees, pulling out Greg’s chair for him before taking a seat next to him, one hand placed over Greg’s knee, which feels like the most natural thing in the world, although Greg is well aware it’s all an act. “Thank you for receiving us on such short notice, Mrs. Watson.”

The woman waves a hand dismissively, smiling. She’s relatively young for a Headmistress, Greg thinks, but she has a quiet no nonsense air that no doubt inspires respect from both staff and alumni. “It’s a bit uncommon to get late enrollments,” she says, still smiling. “But we’ll be happy to have Sherlock with us for what’s left of the year.”

Behind them, Sherlock scoffs and the woman looks in his direction, expression fond. Before she can say anything though, the door opens and another teen peeks inside. “You called?” he asks and the Headmistress nods, standing up.

“Yes, John, come on in. This is Sherlock,” she says, pointing at the sulking teen who is staring at the newcomer with an appraising glance. “He’s new. I want you to give him a tour around the school.”

The teen rolls his eyes dramatically, but shrugs. “Whatever,” he mutters, looking at Sherlock up and down. “Coming?”

Sherlock just stares at the other teen for a couple of beats and finally shrugs, following after him. The door closes after them and the Headmistress turns her attention back to Greg and Mycroft, smiling once more. “Don’t worry. My Johnny will keep an eye on him; don’t be fooled by his sulky attitude.”

Mycroft is frowning, but doesn’t comment and Greg smiles at the woman, figuring there’s not much he can do now and hoping this will turn out alright. “So, paperwork?” he asks and the Headmistress nods, before producing a stack of papers from one of the drawers of her desk.

Greg tries his very best to suppress a groan.

This could take some time.

* * *

 

“He’ll be fine,” Greg assures Mycroft for what feels like the millionth time as they make their way out of the school. “It’s good for him, being surrounded by other teens. Socialize. Maybe even make friends.”

“ _ Friends, _ ” Mycroft says, with such distaste you’d think he’s talking of something utterly bile. 

“Oh, none of that,” Greg says, shoving him playfully. “Friends are great. Everyone needs some.”

“I’d beg to differ,” Mycroft argues snidely and Greg rolls his eyes.

“I’m hurt, Mycroft, deeply hurt,” he says teasingly. “I thought we were friends?”

Mycroft pauses, turning to look at him, a most curious expression on his face. “A bit more than that, I’d think,” he says after a while, lips curved upwards just the slightest bit, no doubt oblivious to the effect his words have on Greg’s poor foolish heart. “We’re engaged, after all.”

Greg smiles, trying not to show how the notion pains him. They’re engaged, yes, but it isn’t real. “I don’t think I’ll be taking your name, though,” he says, in his best playful tone, deliberately masking the way his heart is constricting inside his chest. “So just you know.”

Mycroft hums, resuming his walk. “We might need to compromise once more. What do you think, Lestrade-Holmes or Holmes-Lestrade?”

Greg reminds his silly heart that Mycroft is just joking and that he means no harm. This is all playful teasing between friends; nothing more and nothing less.

And yet--

* * *

 

“No, but wait, why did you come along?”

Greg rolls his eyes, taking a bite from his sandwich. “Because, as I’ve already said, enrolling him was my idea in the first place,” he pauses, contemplating his next words while ignoring Sally’s raised eyebrow. “Also, my mom used to say it was a good idea people knew you at your kids school.”

“Key word  _ yours, _ ” Sally says. “I mean, if this was a real long term commitment-- yeah, sure, it’s a good thing the teachers know you. But considering… I mean… you’re not a permanent fixture in the kid’s life, Greg.” Her tone is gentle and full of pity and it angers Greg although he knows she’s right.

“I just-- It’s not--”

“I think,” Sally interrupts sharply, silencing him with a look. “That you’re getting overinvolved. And it wouldn’t be a bad thing, not really, if you and Mycroft were an actual couple but since you aren’t... Maybe you need to revise this agreement of yours.”

“Sal--”

“You need to really  _ really  _ talk it out Greg. Because you’re getting overly involved, yes, but he’s  _ allowing  _ you to. You’re both acting as if raising this kid was truly a responsibility you’re going to share and if he feels that way… if he’d welcome your input when it comes to raising the brother he evidently  _ adores _ , if he’s treating you like you were his actual partner _ …  _ well, maybe there’s more to this arrangement than you think.”

Greg stares at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Sal, that’s not-- do you mean to say-- that’s not--”

“Talk to him,” Sally insists, finishing her drink and standing up, heading for the café’s door before Greg can even utter a word. For his part, Greg slumps on his seat, staring at nothing in particular, chewing on his lip thoughtfully.

Sally might be right.

But he finds he doesn’t really want to know if she is.

* * *

 

“So, how did school go?”

Sherlock doesn’t really answer, eyes fixed on his phone, the smallest of smiles on his lips and Greg thinks that’s an answer on it’s own. Mycroft, who’s been silently panicking on the copilot seat throws Greg a desperate glance and Greg smiles, patting Mycroft’s knee.

“Sherlock, how did school go?” Greg repeats and the teeneger finally deigns to look up before shrugging non committedly.

“Fine,” he says, eyes fixed on his phone once more Greg shares a look with Mycroft. He doesn’t look one bit appased, truth to be told and Greg pats his knee comfortingly once more.

“Talkative, are we?” Greg asks, turning the car’s engine on and he starts driving. Today was a slow day at work, for what he’s eternally thankful: it gave him the chance to pick his fiancé  up so they could go together to pick Sherlock up from his first day at school. “Who are you texting?” he asks, watching Sherlock from the rearview mirror, not at all surprised when the teen doesn’t even look at him.

“John,” Sherlock replies absentmindedly and Greg grins, delighted, throwing one triumphant smile in Mycroft’s direction. For his part, his fiancé rolls his eyes dramatically, but he does look relieved.

“See?” Greg asks, still smiling. “Told you it’d be a good idea.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, instead simply placing his hand on top of Greg’s, which is still resting on top of his knee. From the rearview mirror, Greg catches sight of Sherlock watching them now, a thoughtful expression on his face and he blushes furiously before pulling away.

God, this all feels so very domestic. If he’s honest with himself, it’s the kind of life he sometimes used to fantasize with when he was younger: a partner he adored and children he’d love even more.

_ It’s not real,  _ he tells himself.

But it’s getting harder and harder to keep that in mind.

* * *

 

“So, I’m going through your guest list--”

“Sal, is this really the time--?”

“And it just occurred me-- do your parents know it’s a scham?”

Greg blinks. He had thought he’d have to invite his parents to his wedding, he had discussed the subject with Mycroft actually. But it had seemed… like an abstract concept, something that didn’t bear thinking too much about since it wasn’t happening any time soon. Now, with Sally waving wedding invitations in front of him though--

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t-- I don’t think I’ll be telling them that, actually.”

“Why not?”

Greg huffs. “Oh, what do you think they’ll say?  _ Sure Greg, go ahead and get fake-married. It’s not like we ever taught you marriage was something to be taken seriously. _ ” He makes a face, imagining his parents’ recriminations and yes, that’s definitely not happening. “I can’t Sal.”

“So you’re going to let them believe it’s real? That you’re both actually madly in love and want to spend the rest of your lives together? What happens in two years, when you inevitably divorce?”

“That’s--” That’s a good question, isn’t it? “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Sally rolls her eyes. “Greg, you can’t-- you know you’re getting divorced eventually, right? I mean, you can’t stay fake-married for the rest of your life! What if you meet someone? Or what if Mycroft does? You need--”

And that’s something he does not wish to contemplate. Not now, probably not ever. So instead of answering, he does the only reasonable thing to do in these cases: 

He walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> It’s a little on the short side, but while I had intended to go a bit further, I decided it worked better like this. I’ve already started writing the next chapter, but while I hope I’ll have another update ready by friday, I can’t promise anything ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Hope you’ll enjoy it ;)

“So, Sal has the wedding invitations ready.”

An odd subject to discuss over dinner, but Mycroft doesn’t say as much. From the corner of his eye he catches Sherlock opening his mouth, to say something rude no doubt, so he hurries to silence him with a glare. His brother pouts, as he tends to do when chided, but actually keeps quiet.

“And she said… well, she raised a fair point.” Gregory takes a deep breath, evidently upset and so Mycroft forgets all about his own food, attention fixed on his (fake) partner. “I… I haven’t told my parents about… you know. And I think… I think it might be a good idea if you met them before we sent them the invitations.”

A deadly silence befalls upon them. The sound of cutlery being drop (by both him and Sherlock) fills the room, making the silence more pointed. Mycroft wipes his mouth carefully, if only to buy himself time, not at all certain what he ought to say.

“I… sure? If… if you think that’s a good idea?”

It’s not a good idea. It’s a terrible idea, really. Meeting the parents is something real couples do, it is in fact quite serious business. Then again, all things considered… “I was thinking we could go on Christmas. That way you can meet the whole family before… well, you know. Unless you feel that might be too much pressure?”

It sort of is, yes, but he supposes it’d be a logical approach. If this was a real engagement, that’s probably how it’d have been done, so he nods, perhaps a tad reluctantly, but he hopes it doesn’t show (much). “Right. It’s settled then,” Gregory says, but he looks deeply unhappy. Mycroft bites his lip, wanting to say something, although he honestly has no idea what he could possibly say.

“Do I need to come along?” Sherlock asks suddenly, breaking the tense silence, which was probably his intention. He puts on his best innocent smile and Mycroft shares a look with his  _ fiancé,  _ who chuckles a little.

“Afraid so,” Gregory says, ruffling Sherlock’s hair affectionately. Mycroft has noticed it’s something he does quite often and while Sherlock pretends to be annoyed by it, he can tell he’s mostly baffled by the action. “We can’t leave you on your own here and risk having no flat to come back to. Besides, it’s Christmas.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fair enough,” he says, pushing Gregory’s hand away. “And stop doing that. You’ll ruin the look.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We’re going for a look, are we? This mess of curls is a look?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to know, considering you seem to prefer my brother’s uptight style, but--”

Mycroft smiles, watching his companions as they argue good naturedly. He and Sherlock never quite managed the playful banter siblings all around the world seem to engage into and while he supposes that’s partially result of the age-difference...

He pushes the memories of dinners with their parents sitting on each side of the table to the back of his head. Such thoughts will do nothing but put him in a gloom mood and besides, the past is in the past and it should stay there.

He turns to look at his fiancé, who is once more ruffling Sherlock’s hair affectionately, much to his little brother’s pretend-horror and he smiles.

Meeting Gregory’s parents should be an interesting experience, at the very least.

* * *

 

Mycroft isn’t quite sure he’s going to survive this.

Christmas is still a couple of days away and yet he has worked himself into an anxious mess. It’s not that he doesn’t want to meet Gregory’s parents, it’s just… it feels… 

It brings their whole agreement into a different light, he supposes. And Gregory doesn’t want to tell his parents the truth, so they’ll have to act all lovey-dovey, because unlike his own family, Gregory’s parents seem to be affectionate people (judging by the way their son behaves) and so they’ll expect them to act as a couple who is actually in love and that-- that--

Good god, this is a terrible idea.

There is, of course, something else bothering him. Namely, what the Lestrades will think of him. What if Gregory’s parents don’t approve of him, what then? And it’d be just natural, wouldn’t it? After all, Gregory is… and Mycroft is… in no universe could Mycroft Holmes actually deserve a man as perfect as Gregory Lestrade and what is he going to do if…?

“Oh, please stop pacing,” Sherlock says, appearing out of thin air. “Have you began packing or are you too busy panicking?”

Mycroft turns to look at his empty case, a guilty expression on his face. Sherlock rolls his eyes, heading for his closet and he starts pulling out clothes, murmuring under his breath. “Do you own anything other than suits?” he asks out loud and Mycroft makes a face. “Of course not,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes once more. “I forgot who I was talking to.”

Mycroft huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I--”

“Sit down and try to breath,” Sherlock interrupts, still going through his clothes. “You’ll work yourself into a anxiety attack and we wouldn’t want Lestrade to witness that, would we?”

Mycroft sighs, dropping himself on the bed, covering his face with his hands as he takes deep breaths. “It’d probably upset him,” he concedes and Sherlock hums. “It’s just… I don’t know. I should have known this day would come.”

Sherlock huffs. “Indeed. Lestrade comes from a family where people obviously do give a damn about each other, so this was a rather unavoidable step. Even if you had just eloped, you’d have need to meet his parents eventually.”

Yes, that much is true, Mycroft thinks miserably. And yet--

“Should have picked another orphan,” Sherlock continues, pulling out a grey suit, observing it thoughtfully. “Or, you know, someone whose parents might as well be dead.” He scrunches his nose, putting the suit back into the closet. “Instead of someone whose parents are the kind of people who are still married because they actually _ love  _ each other, not because there’s money involved and are probably hoping for their children to find someone they love too.”

Mycroft groans. “I didn’t have that many options, you know?”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “At least be honest with yourself: you asked Lestrade to fake-marry you because you actually want him to at least _ date you _ . And since you believe that’s simply not possible, you figured you’d settle for a piece of fiction.”

When did his little brother get this perceptive? “Be as it may… I really didn’t have many other options.”

His brother huffs, pulling out another suit and observing it in the light. “This’ll work,” he announces, before turning to look for a shirt. “Lestrade’s parents will expect you to act like an actual couple, you know? Unlike dear aunt Elise, they won’t be fooled by all your hand holding.”

Mycroft gulps nervously. “I know.”

“Nothing too… outward, I should think, but you know… affectionate.” Sherlock scrunches his nose once again. “It’ll be absolutely disgusting to watch.”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to roll his eyes. “Your endless support is much appreciated, brother mine.”

“I am a terrific brother,” Sherlock agrees with a smirk. “But Mycroft-- the thing you’re worrying about-- don’t. If anything, Lestrade would be lucky to have you.” He makes a face, apparently already regretting his words and Mycroft can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock assures him, finally choosing a shirt and depositing on the bed. “You’ll get through it.”

_ Yes _ , Mycroft thinks.

The real problem is, what will happen next.

* * *

 

The small cottage is, in all truth, a little run down. Gregory looks awfully self conscious and he keeps throwing Mycroft concerned glances, as if he’s expecting him to turn around and leave. Mycroft can’t quite understand, but he figures saying nothing is probably better than trying to reassure his partner.

_ Fake partner _ , he reminds himself sternly. “I know it’s not much,” Gregory says, pulling him back from his own thoughts. “It’s… my parents bought it after they retired and they just wanted… it was a little old, but dad thought he’d manage to--”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupts, cringing a bit at how apologetic his companion sounds. “It’s fine. I don’t--”

“It looks homey,” Sherlock interrupts. “Like one of those houses in the commercials where all the family actually likes each other.” He blushes furiously, apparently having noticed what he has just said and Mycroft’s heart aches in sympathy. His poor brother… “So, are we going to stay in the car forever more?” the teen asks sulkily and Gregory smiles, reaching for him. “You touch my hair once more and you’re a dead man,” he sentences and Gregory laughs good naturedly.

“Alright, let’s go,” Gregory says finally, before taking a deep breath. “Let’s get this done with.”

He sounds more like a man heading for death row than someone who’s about to introduce his fiancé to his parents.

Mycroft holds back a sigh.

This is going to be sheer torture.

* * *

 

The front door of the cottage opens and a dog rushes out of it, barking excitedly at the newcomers. Mycroft comes to an abrupt stop as the animal comes to him, waving its tail excitedly, drooling abundantly. He watches in horror as the dog comes even closer, sniffing him out and leaving drool and hairs in equal measures over his perfectly clean suit.

“Oh no, Max, don’t--” Gregory begins and the animal turns his attention to him then, turning to sniff him too, effectively ruining his clothes too.

“Gregory what--”

“Come here, come here,” Sherlock calls, kneeling down and the dog is at his side a second later, sniffing him just once before licking him all over his face. “Good dog! Who’s a good boy? You are! You are!” the dog barks even more excitedly, jumping up and down around his brother, alternating between sniffing and licking Sherlock’s face.

Mycroft huffs. Of course his brother couldn’t care less about ruining his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Gregory tells him, but his eyes are fixed on Sherlock and the beast he calls a dog. “Max is-- he’s a little affectionate.” Mycroft arches an eyebrow and his  _ fiancé  _ chuckles, shaking his head. “More than a little, perhaps.”

Mycroft huffs once more. “You could have warned me,” he says, a little sulkily. “I could have put on something else.”

“Do you actually own something that’s not a suit?” his partner asks playfully and Mycroft glares.

“I’ll have you know--”

“Greg! Is that you?” a woman has just stepped outside the house, holding a hand over her eyes to cover herself from the sun. “Oh good god! Have you managed to get even taller since the last time I saw you?”

“I doubt it, mom,” Gregory says, approaching her, Mycroft following close by. “But it’s been a while since we saw each other.”

The woman hums, accepting the kiss her son places on her cheek. “Indeed. And who is this handsome young man, huh? Have you finally come to give us a happy announcement?”

Mycroft blushes and so does Gregory, a nervous laugh escaping him. “Mom, this is Mycroft,” he says, taking Mycroft’s hand, avoiding his eyes. “We’re engaged,” he announces, showing off his engagement ring, tone perhaps a bit clipped, but Mrs. Lestrade doesn’t seem to notice.

“I knew it!” she says, beaming brightly at her son, before pulling him into a hug. “Oh, my boy! This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Come on in, come on in. This deserves a proper celebration. Now, where’s your father?”

Gregory turns to him, offering him a small embarrassed smile and he guides him into the house, still holding his hand. Mycroft looks behind him, making sure Sherlock is still busy playing with the dog and then follows after his  _ fiancé _ .

God, this was a terrible idea, wasn’t it?   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope it was enjoyable, although there’s not much happening, truth to be told :P I thought the whole meeting the family would work better from Greg’s POV, so I ended the chapter a little earlier. Hopefully, I’ll manage to finish the next chapter before the week is over, but I guess we’ll see ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Many things were meant to happen in this chapter, but the boy weren’t really cooperating and I figured I’d leave it for the next one. With any luck, it’ll be posted before actual Christmas, but I can’t make any promises.  
> Enjoy!

“I’m pretty sure you should lay off the cookies, Sherlock,” Greg says, as the teen makes a grab for the newest tray of sugary treats. “That much sugar can’t be good for you.”

“Oh, but just look at the poor thing,” his mother intervenes, patting Sherlock’s cheek. “All skin and bones this one. Not that your fiancé is doing much better,” she adds after a brief pause, pouring Mycroft more cocoa without being prompted. “I’m dissapointed on you, Gregory. You’re not feeding him well.”

“Such a terrible fiancé you are, Gregory,” Mycroft, the traitor, agrees. 

“Oh, as if I haven’t been bringing you those croissants you like every morning,” Greg says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you never told me you actually like cocoa. All I’ve ever seen you drink is tea or coffee.”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” Mycroft pronounces dramatically and Sherlock chuckles, amused. Beneath the table he’s feeding Max cookies too and Greg’s fairly certain that’s not good for the old dog’s diet, but he supposes it can’t possibly hurt every once in a while.

“Your mother and I raised you better than that, Greg,” his father joins in and Greg groans, while his parents chuckle. “And truly, telling us you’re marrying just a few months before the wedding-- for shame, Gregory Lestrade, for shame.”

“That might actually be my fault,” Mycroft interrupts, patting Greg’s knee before he can open his mouth to apologise for the millionth time. “It was all so abrupt-- and we meant to tell you right away, of course, but it’s just been one thing after another--”

“Of course, darling, we understand,” his mother says, with a soft fond smile. “It’s terrible your parents passed away like that, but truly... what an horrible way to attempt to manipulate you beyond the grave. Why, if they weren’t dead--”

“Leonor, darling, do relax. It’s not good for your blood pressure,” his father says, squeezing his mother’s hand. His parents have always been nothing but supportive, so Greg supposes it’s just natural that Mycroft’s parents’ attitude…  _ upsets _ them a little.

“It’s fine,” Mycroft says after a brief pause, sliding closer to Greg on the small loveseat. “I mean… I adore your son. And I was planning on marrying him anyway, so no harm done.”

Greg ignores the way his heart constricts in his chest with practiced ease. “Indeed,” he agrees, leaning closer to Mycroft too, his heart doing a summersault when his companion rests his head on his shoulder. “And you know I wasn’t exactly keen on the big white wedding so… although of course, Sal has managed to plan something a bit bigger than I thought--”

“Oh, your brothers will be so disappointed!” his mother says suddenly. “They were so sure you were dating that Sally you kept mentioning!”

Greg nearly chokes on his own saliva. “Oh, god, no! Sal is… god no! That’d be…no!”

“I think Gregory views Ms. Donovan as the younger sister he never got,” Mycroft says, sounding slightly amused. “Luckily for me,” he adds, his tone so full of affection that Greg’s heart skips a beat.  _ It’s all an act,  _ he reminds himself sharply, but Mycroft is still smiling at him and he’s so close-- if he leaned a little forward--

Max starts barking madly right then, breaking the spell. Greg looks away as the dog rushes for the door, still barking madly, waving his tail enthusiastically, scratching the door so he’ll be let out.

“That must be your brothers,” his mother says, standing up and going to open the door. “I must warn you, Mycroft dear. They’ll tease Gregory non-stop, but they truly mean no harm.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Lestrade,” Mycroft says, standing up too, Greg’s side suddenly a hundred degrees colder in his absence.

“Oh, I must insist. All my children’s partners call me Leonor, none of that Mrs. Lestrade nonsense.”

Mycroft smiles, a small and nervous thing and Greg’s heart warms at the sight. “If you insist, Leonor.” 

Greg didn’t really doubt his parents would like Mycroft, nor the other way around.

Which just makes him feel all the more guilty.

* * *

 

Greg isn’t jealous, not one bit.

He has no reason to be jealous, after all.

Still--

It might be silly, but Greg grew up feeling like the ugly duckling of the family. Rationally, he knows he’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t have Hugh model-like looks or Theodore’s easy charm. He wasn’t at all surprised when people who wouldn’t give him the time of the day would be swept off their feet by his older brothers (the age difference probably didn’t help either) and so he’s not exactly surprised by the way Mycroft blushes so prettily at his siblings’ flirting, but he’s still quite annoyed.

Unfortunately, Olivia and Nellie aren’t being any help either, too used (and amused) by their husbands antics to say anything. Besides, they do know how Hugh and Theo like to tease him and of course they don’t mean to be cruel; for them it’s all playful sibling teasing.

Still--

“Alright, alright, back off!” he exclaims, finally stepping in front of Mycroft, hands on his hips. “The gentleman is spoken for,” he says, taking Mycroft’s hand in his and squeezing, eyes fixed on his brothers, who are looking quite amused. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that,” Hugh says, smile bright as the sun and really, how does he keep his teeth so white? “I don’t see you’ve put a ring on it.”

“That’s because I’m the one wearing the ring,” Greg says, presenting his hand for examination and he’s regarded by enthusiastic squeals from the rest of the family, along with a chorus of  _ congratulations. _

Having made his claim, it occurs Greg perhaps he acted a little… unwisely. After all, he does not actually have a claim on Mycroft and what if he has messed up horribly? What if--?

“I think they got the message loud and clear, my dear,” Mycroft says, freeing his hand so he can place his arm around his waist, lips pressed to the top of his head, loud enough for anyone to hear. “Not that you need to fear. I’m all yours, despite your brothers undeniable charms.”

Greg tries very hard not to blush. It’s all for show, he knows, but it warms something inside him. No one had ever chosen him over his brothers, no matter what (not even Jossie, who always lamented Hugh was too old for her) and yet--

It might not be real, but what he’d give for it to be.

* * *

 

Of course the teasing returns shortly after, Theodore and Hugh trading all sort of playful banter, some comments more innocent than others. They’re back in the house and Sherlock has joined them, so Olivia, god bless her soul, stops her husband from saying anything too dirty;  _ there are children present,  _ she states and while Hugh pouts like a chided toddler, he does control himself.

Theo, of course, isn’t as much of a good sport though and keeps throwing all sort of innuendos left and right. Some of them Mycroft seems to honestly miss, but Sherlock doesn’t, judging by his soft snickering. In the end, mom sends Sherlock out to play with Max, sensing Hugh and Theo aren’t going to behave all night long and the teen is happy to do so, although he does throw a meaningful glance in his brother’s direction before parting.

“That’s Greg for you,” Theo says, taking a swing from his beer. “Always the overachiever.”

“I-- what?” he realizes he’s missed a good part of the conversation, busy as he was contemplating Hugh latest innuendo and staring at Mycroft’s lips perhaps a tad too intently while he did.

“Grandkids,” Olivia supplies helpfully, patting her husband’s knee. “Me and Hugh have been married for fifteen years and Nell and Theo have been together for just as long and yet we’ve all failed to give your parents any grandkids. You, on the other hand--”

“Not even two months and you’ve granted their dearest wish!” Theo exclaims cheerfully. “You work fast, little brother.”

Just then Greg notices Mom is seemingly baking yet more cookies for her newfound grandchild and it occurs him this whole mess is bigger than he originally imagined. “Well, I… I don’t waste time!” he jokes and he wonders if his laughter sounds as forced as it feels. Next to him, Mycroft remains perfectly relaxed, head resting on his shoulder and Greg dares to believe he’s not messing it up too badly.

“And such a proper boyfriend you got yourself,” Hugh says with a good natured laugh. “But you always had a thing for prim and proper. Remember how he used to stare at Nell all starry eyed when she used to work at that law firm and used all those suits?”

Oh, god. Must they discuss his embarrassing crush on his sister-in-law? “I was thirteen!” he exclaims, blushing madly as Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “And Nellie rocked those suits.”

“That I did,” Nellie agrees. “And I’m glad to see you’ve finally met your well-dress soulmate.”

Oh, that conversation had been so embarrassing. “Nell, can we not?”

“Oh, little brother, haven’t you told your boyfriend how you tried to steal my girlfriend?”

“I-- that’s not-- Theo!”

Everyone laughs, his fake fiancé included. Mycroft’s smile is fond, full of affection and Greg smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of his head without even thinking about it. Mycroft blinks, momentarily confused, but before Greg can properly panic, he smiles softly before pressing a kiss of his own to Greg’s nose.

“All perfectly understandable,” Mycroft says, turning his attention back to Greg’s family, completely oblivious to the way Greg’s brain is shortcutting. “I can see Mrs. Nellie is a most charming woman, even if women aren’t exactly my area.”

The banter continues, but Greg is blind and deaf to it all, still processing their  _ moment.  _ Except _ it wasn’t a moment _ , was it? It was just-- it wasn’t-- they didn’t--

Oh good lord, what is he doing?

* * *

 

“He seems a most decent fellow,” Theo tells him later while they help clean the dishes after dinner. Since Mycroft helped serving, he’s now sitting in the living room with his parents and his sisters-in-law (being interrogated, most likely). “You choose well, Greggie.”

He hates the nickname and he’s most thankful his brothers at least had the decency not to use it in front of his  _ fiancé _ . “He is,” he agrees, eyes fixed on the plate he’s washing. “He’s… he makes me very happy.”

Which he supposes is not a lie, not exactly. He also makes him infinitely miserable, because none of this is real and yet-- “I can tell,” Theo agrees quietly, “we’re happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Hugh agrees from the other side, where he’s restacking the plates on their rightful places. “I never told you, because I figured you wouldn’t have appreciated it, but I always knew Jossie wasn’t the one for you.” Greg snorts, but doesn’t reply and his brother chuckles. “I mean it! She was… I mean, I don’t doubt she liked you a lot, but she didn’t look at you as if you had personally hung out every star out there. Not the way dad looks at mom, or even the way Theo looks at Nell.”

“Or you at Olivia,” Theo supplies helpfully and Hugh grins.

“Exactly!” he exclaims cheerfully. “Mycroft looks at you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real.” Greg’s heart constricts most painfully inside his chest, but he reminds himself not to react outwardly. “And you-- Well, you look at him as if there’s nothing in the world you wouldn’t do if it meant making him happy.”

Greg closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  _ It’s not real,  _ he wants to say.  _ I’d give him the world if I could, but he doesn’t want that from me.  _ But saying as much would give too much away and alerting his brothers of the fakeness of his relationship is the worst idea ever and yet--

“Oh, Greggie, don’t get all overemotional,” Theo teases, hugging him. “I get it, trust me, I do. Loving someone so much-- it’s scary as hell. But so very worth it.”

“Indeed,” Hugh agrees, suddenly standing close and hugging him too. “You’ll be perfectly fine, you’ll see.”

_ If only _ , Greg thinks.

If only.

* * *

 

“I said no.”

“But Mycroft!” Sherlock whines and Greg braces himself for whatever is waiting for him on the other side of the door. After the night he has had, all he really wants is to climb in bed and forget all about it, but it seems luck isn’t on his side today.

“What’s going on in here?” he asks, opening the door, becoming aware of several facts he failed to consider before.

The guest rooms in his parents’ cottage are ridiculously small, containing just a double bed. That never was a problem when Greg visited before, since he was on his own, but tonight Mycroft is staying with him and that means they’ll be sleeping in close quarters. Of course nowadays they  _ cuddle  _ to sleep, but it’s just… weird, thinking of sharing such a small bed.

On the floor, his parents have somehow managed to fit an air mattress, Sherlock’s small night bag resting on top of it. Greg isn’t sure how he feels about this arrangement, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. Besides, knowing the little menace his brother-in-law can be, it’s probably wiser to have him close.

“Lestrade, say something!” Sherlock demands, arms crossed over his chest, in his ever petulant tone. Since Greg has no idea what he’s talking about though, he simply stares, hoping someone will fill him in. “Argh! You are no use, as usual!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft chides, arms crossed over his chest too. He turns to Greg, an expectant expression on his face. “Gregory, kindly explain to my brother why he can’t sleep with the bloody dog?”

“Language,” Greg chides in automatic because, well, this is his parents’ home. Mycroft arches an eyebrow and he hurries to add. “Max isn’t really allowed into the rooms, Sherlock. For all the fondness my mom might be feeling towards you, that’s the rule.”

“But--”

“Oh, if the boy wants, Max can stay with him tonight,” his mother says, peeking into the room, smiling. “Probably not on the air mattress, since he’ll probably break it, but next to it?”

Jesus. “Mom, you’re spoiling him,” Greg says as Sherlock beams brightly. 

“Oh, hush you. That’s what grandparents are for,” she says, pinching Sherlock’s cheek and the teen doesn’t seem to mind, all too happy for having gotten his way after all. “Parents raise and grandparents spoil. That’s how it works.”

Sherlock throws them a smug smile, before rushing out of the room, calling for Max. The dog barks excitedly and Greg can hear him climbing the stairs clumsily, unused as he is to being allowed upstairs. He rubs his temples tiredly, shaking his head. “If he carries on like this, we’ll have to take Max back with us,” he says, to no one in particular.

“We don’t have enough space for it,” Mycroft says, staring at his brother who has came back with Max. “Maybe something smaller. And less hairy, if possible.”

Greg laughs as Max starts jumping around Sherlock, excited for being allowed into a room. It’ll be a tight fit tonight, Greg suspects, but they’ll have to make do.

Ah, what a night awaits them.

* * *

 

“Your family is lovely,” Mycroft murmurs, his breath ghosting over Greg’s collarbone. As he predicted, is a tight fit on the small bed and they’re even closer than usual. They’re lying down face to face and somehow that makes the whole thing feel more intimate than their usual positions.

“They’ve taken a shine on you,” Greg replies, running his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. It’s probably not the sort of thing friends do while in bed together, but Mycroft doesn’t seem inclined to protest and it is awfully nice. 

Mycroft hums, snuggling closer. It’s cold, Greg reasons with himself, but keep on reminding himself none of this is real is getting more difficult with each passing second. “I like them too,” Mycroft replies softly. “I never… They’re nothing like my family. But you knew that already.”

“Yeah,” Greg whispers, unsure of what else he can possibly say. Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind his silence though; he’s falling asleep already, he suspects.

It’s surprisingly easy, drifting off to sleep with Mycroft in his arms like this. The whole thing, actually, is remarkably easy: you’d think pretending to be someone’s fiancé would be harder. He had thought briefly of suggesting they practiced how they’d act infront of his parents, but then it had occurred Greg it might have the opposite effect, making their interactions look awkward and rehearsed. It was important that nothing seemed amiss; Greg wouldn’t have wanted to worry his parents and he definitely doesn’t want his brothers interrogating him, but--

He thinks back to their little moment, on that small kiss. It probably meant nothing, it wouldn’t have meant nothing, and yet-- “I do apologize,” Mycroft says suddenly, startling Greg since he had thought his companion had fallen asleep already. “If I made you uncomfortable earlier, I mean. I just-- I wasn’t thinking. It just felt-- like something a regular couple would do.”

Ah, so he’s been thinking about it too. But does that mean something? Anything at all? “It’s fine,” Greg dismisses, making a conscious effort to avoid Mycroft’s eyes. “It just surprised me. But I started it, so…”

Mycroft hums, burying his face into Greg’s chest and Greg hopes his erratic heartbeat won’t be noticed by his companion. “It’s cold out here,” Mycroft murmurs. “I don’t like it.”

That startles a small laugh out of Greg. “I don’t like it that much either. I never really understood why my parents moved so far in the north, actually.”

“Well--”

“Oh, good god!” Sherlock exclaims, sharply reminding Greg of his presence. “If I leave the room for half an hour so you can have a  _ quickie,  _ do you think you’ll be tired enough afterwards to actually let me sleep?”

Greg blushes furiously and he wonders if the way his whole body warms is noticeable to his bedmate. “Sherlock!” Mycroft chides, attempting to pull away but he doesn’t go far, seeing the bed is quite small. “Go to sleep.”

Sherlock huffs, annoyed. “You go to sleep,” he shoots petulantly and Greg sighs, burying his face in Mycroft’s hair.

“Let’s all go to sleep,” he suggests, before the argument can escalate and while the teen huffs once more, he doesn’t protest, so he takes it as a win. “Good night,” he murmurs and Mycroft hums, before turning around so his back is pressed to Greg’s front. It’s their usual sleeping position, yes, but Greg feels unsettled tonight and he can’t quite relax, at least not right away.

“Good night. Pleasant dreams,” Mycroft murmurs, a yawn interrupting his last word and Greg chuckles, before pressing a kiss to the back of his head, not really thinking about it.

It feels so natural, really. As if there was simply no other way for things to be.

And yet--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Of course everyone but them can see how madly in love they are with each other. It’d be funny, if it wasn’t heartbreaking too :P  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! This chapter is supposed to take place the day before Christmas, so the actual Christmas celebration will be in the next chapter. I hope to have it ready before next monday, but I can’t make any promises ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the newest chapter! I’m worried it might feel a little rushed, but I’ll let you be the judges of that ;)  
> So, without further ado, enjoy!

When Mycroft wakes up, the other side of the bed is cold.

He stretches out, absentmindedly searching for his phone to see what time is it. Judging by the light coming through the open curtains, it’s way past his usual wake up time, but he’s off work and surely he can indulge in a late lie in?

He wonders, briefly, where Gregory is, but he quickly dismisses the thought, figuring he must be helping his family with last minute preparations. His next thought goes to Sherlock, but the sound of barking and cheerful laughter coming through the window assures him his brother is perfectly fine.

He decidedly ignores a distant memory trying to come forward, of a much younger Sherlock and a little ball of fur that Mycroft had gifted to him for his fifth birthday. It’s the sort of memory that does little for his mood and the thing about the past is that you can’t change it, no matter how badly you might want to, so…

Busy as he is, keeping dark memories at bay, he fails to notice he’s no longer alone in the room. He looks up to find his soon to be father-in-law standing by the door, carrying a cup of cocoa with him, waiting.

“Oh, good morning,” Mycroft greets, blushing a little, running his fingers through his hair self consciously, wondering how much of a mess it is. “I’m sorry, I overslept and--”

“It’s fine,” Mr. Lestrade tells him, coming in and handing him the cup. “Leonor insists you and your brother are entirely too skinny, so she sent me to give you this.”

Something inside Mycroft warms at the gesture. His own mother often made jabs at his weight, always chidding him for indulging his sweet tooth. Rationally, he knew it was a bunch of bullshit, but the jabs still hurt and they made him terribly self conscious when it comes to his eating habits.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking a small sip. It tastes like heaven, particularly in the cold morning and he finds himself smiling. He was always a terribly serious boy, or so everyone said, so how easily smiles come to him these days is still a novelty to him.

Mr. Lestrade hums, sitting on the only chair in the room, gazing outside the window absentmindedly. “I’m afraid poor Max will be broken hearted when you leave tomorrow. He hasn’t had a proper playmate since forever.”

Mycroft smiles just the slightest bit. “Sherlock is certainly going to miss him too.”

His companion hums, turning to face him once more. “I’ve been talking to your brother. Or rather, Leonor has been and I’ve been listening. Now, I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but I must say, your parents… they were something else.”

 _That’s one way to describe them,_ Mycroft thinks but doesn’t say. The subject of his family is one he does not like discussing and he’s not eager to have this conversation, but he supposes it’s only polite to keep quiet and listen.

“It’s very clear the boy cares a lot about you, he’s just unsure how to show it,” Mr. Lestrade continues, tone gentle and patient, paternal even. “Didn’t get much of an example, based on what he says.”

“It wasn’t exactly encouraged,” Mycroft agress, trying to keep his tone even. Mummy was never terribly affectionate and she’d often push Sherlock away if he tried for a hug or even a handhold.

“Yes, I… it shows. He’s not-- you can see he wants to do or say something, but he’s almost… afraid.” Mr. Lestrade says, tone sad and uncertain. “And he’s so… he’s ready to lash out at the slightest sign of trouble.”

Mycroft hums. He and Sherlock deal with things differently, but it’s also essentially the same: keep away anything (anyone) that might hurt you. But Sherlock does reach out, from time to time, while he--

Well.

“You, on the other hand,” his companion continues, making Mycroft turn to look at him sharply. “You always look ready to bolt. To run away as fast and far as you possibly can. I’ve seen you with Greg: you lean into him and you seem relaxed, but you’re ready to run and the thing is… the thing is, people who are ready to bolt, _will bolt_ , sooner or later, no matter the mess they’ll leave behind.”

Mycroft’s heart constricts painfully in his chest. He doesn’t… he wouldn’t… “Mr. Lestrade, I assure you--”

“Gregor is fine, if you don’t mind,” the older man interrupts, making a face. “I wasn’t exactly keen on naming Greg after myself, of course, always felt terribly narcissistic to me, but Leonor insisted and after three kids… well, she finally got her way.”

Mycroft nods slowly, biting his lip. “Alright. I, Gregor, I… I assure you I don’t… I mean…”

The man waves a hand, shaking his head. “Old habits die hard,” he tells him, voice gentle. “And I understand given the circumstances of your upbringing-- it’s hard to trust others. But I do believe you love my son and it’s clear as water he loves you back just as much so I’m just… all I’m saying Mycroft is… Trust him. He won’t disappoint you, I’m certain of that.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, willing himself not to let his emotions get the best of him. The thing is he does trust Gregory, of course he does, but none of this is real and he can’t… he won’t…

It’s not going to last. And how will he stomach to disappoint these people, who’ve been nothing but kind and loving to him? He’s beginning to realize this lie will continue to grow like a snowball, getting bigger and bigger as time passes and soon enough… soon enough…

It’s going to crush him.

So he doesn’t say anything, in part because he’s not sure what he can possibly say, in part because he simply can not make the words pass through the lump in his throat. Gregor however, doesn’t seem to take his silence as something negative, because he smiles, stands up and pats Mycroft’s shoulder. “It’s going to be fine, son. Being in love is always taking a leap of faith, with the deep conviction that it’s all going to turn out alright.”

And with that the older man leaves, leaving Mycroft with nothing but his thoughts.

God, what a mess.

* * *

 

“Ah, you’ve got the Talk,” Olivia says the minute she watches him walk into the kitchen, taking upon herself to refill his cocoa cup. “Gregor doesn’t speak much, but when he does-- it’s deep, isn’t it?”

“You could say so,” Mycroft replies, ignoring the way his stomach is still turning. “It’s-- I mean-- he certainly got me thinking.”

Olivia hums, placing the cup in front of him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Anyone with eyes could see you and Greg are meant to be.” She smiles, bright as the sun and Mycroft’s stomach twists unpleasantly once more.

“I… thank you,” he settles for, taking a small sip of his beverage. With his stomach twisted in knots, it might not be the wisest idea ever, but the warmth of it helps a little. “I do… I mean, we haven’t been together that long but… sometimes you just know, don’t you?” he smiles, a small pained _fake_ thing. God, why must he insist on digging his own grave?

“Yes,” Olivia says, with conviction and then tilts her head to the side. “Or no, not really. I mean-- I nearly left the church on my wedding day. Last minute cold feet,” she smiles humorlessly, shaking her head. “I knew I loved Hugh. But it was just so… terrifying. But as Nell says, if you’re not terrified of fucking up, it’s because there’s not enough for you to lose.”

Mycroft considers this, taking another sip from his drink. “That sounds… deep.”

Olivia chuckles, shaking her head. “That’s why she’s Gregor’s favorite.” She winks. “Although you might be competing for that place soon enough! Theo meant it last night: grandkids are Leonor and Gregor’s dearest wish.”

A real family was (is?) Mycroft’s dearest wish too, but somehow saying as much feels… it’s probably too much. “I guess we’ll see,” he says, looking outside the window absentmindedly. “Where’s everyone?”

“The boys are at the market, helping Leonor get some last minute stuff. Nell is probably locked up in her room, working on something-- that girl works entirely too much. And it’s damn secretive about it, something you can probably bond over, based on what Greg tells me.” She winks and Mycroft attempts to smile. “Your brother is out, attempting to build a snowman by the looks of it, but Max is of course having none of it.” Mycroft turns to peer outside the window once more, a smile coming unbidden to his lips at the sight. “Hugh told me they tried to bring you along, but Greg said you wouldn’t appreciate being waken up so early.”

Mycroft blushes. “I would--”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re a guest, no one is expecting you to do anything other than eat every plate that’s placed in front of you tonight.” She pats her stomach, smiling. “We’re all skin and bones, so Leonor is set on rectifying that.”

Mycroft can’t help the small chuckle that escapes him. “So it seems. I don’t think I’ve drunk this much cocoa in my whole life.”

Olivia nods, amused, before pouring yet another cup of cocoa. “I’m going to go see Nell. She’ll starve herself if left unsupervised,” she chuckles, a soft fond sound and Mycroft smiles a little. “You can come along, if you want.”

Mycroft hesitates. He’s never been good with people: he has learned to interact with others, to speak and manipulate so he’ll ultimately get what he wants (or needs) but socializing for the sake of it--

“You know, lovers should always be friends first and foremost,” Olivia tells him, still waiting by the door, as if she’s convinced he’s going to come along. “But they shouldn’t be your only friends. And Nell and I might be… _slightly_ older than you, but we’re family and we do have a good amount of embarrassing tales of Greg’s youth we could share.” She winks as Mycroft laughs and he shakes his head, figuring he might as well go with her.

It’s not like he has anything else to do, really.

And, although he’d never admit it out loud, he wants to know everything that there's to know about his _fiancé_.

* * *

 

“So you spent the whole morning with Olivia and Nellie.”

Mycroft smiles, more than a little amused by Gregory’s expression. “I’m afraid I can not reveal what we discussed, my dear. We have a confidentiality agreement.”

“Of course,” Gregory says, lips pursued. “They told you every embarrassing story they could remember, didn’t they?”

Mycroft smiles some more. “Now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

Gregory huffs, shaking his head. He’s amused, Mycroft can tell and trying his best not to let it show. “I’m glad to see you’re getting along,” he says and he means it, even if his tone is flippant.

“Yes,” he agrees softly. “I didn’t-- it’s going better than I thought.”

Gregory frowns, unhappy and Mycroft hurries to look away. He does not wish to have this conversation, particularly not surrounded by Gregory’s family. Besides, there’s little to say on the matter: no matter what reasurances his companion gives, Mycroft won’t be able to fully believe them.

“Dinner is served!” Leonor calls, exiting the kitchen, carrying a big casserole with her that Gregor hurries to help her with. Gregory throws him a look that suggests they will be discussing his words later and Mycroft makes a face, but doesn’t comment, figuring there’s nothing to do about it.

At least not now.

* * *

 

After dinner, they retreat into the living room, the whole family talking amicably among them. Mycroft keeps himself to Gregory’s side, still a bit unsure of his place here and he watches as Sherlock sits down on his own, a book in his lap (Gregory’s gift to him, actually), one hand buried in Max’s fur as he reads. He looks happy and at peace and for that alone, Mycroft would be glad they came, but in truth these last two days have been…

They never really celebrated the holidays at home. Or they did, in the sense they decorated and had a lavish dinner, but it was… cold. Not a proper celebration, not in the way this is. They didn’t actually exchanged gifts either, which in turn made him rather terrible at picking up gifts for someone else and so he struggled quite a bit getting some for his newfound family-in-law, but Gregory had been great help and it seems everyone did like what he got them.

It’s been nice, these last couple of days. Better than nice, really, although he feels like he doesn’t have the appropriate words to describe how… _right_ everything has felt. He feels happy and relaxed, feelings he never associated with having to deal with his family, let alone his extended family.

And now--

It’s a pity, he thinks, that it’ll have to end. He feels like he’s dreaming and he never wants to wake up, but he knows he must. None of this is _his,_ can not be his, because Gregory isn’t and so, sooner or later, he’ll have to say goodbye to it all.

 _Not just yet, though,_ he tells himself, leaning closer to Gregory, basking in his warmth.

Not just yet.

* * *

 

A little past midnight Sherlock falls asleep without anyone really noticing and so Mycroft has no choice but to pick him up from his spot on the carpet where he fell asleep. His brother is light as a feather, but lanky and so carrying him upstairs proves a little problematic; Gregory’s well intended, but ultimately useless efforts to help actually complicating matters further. Mycroft figures he can’t complain though and so eventually they manage to make their way back downstairs after leaving Sherlock fast asleep on his air mattress, Max loyaly lying next to him.

And that’s of course, when things go promptly to hell.

That might not be a good way to describe what happened afterwards, Mycroft will later think, but at the moment, it certainly seemed that way. Not because the next events were unpleasant (far from it, actually) but because they were both his dearest dream and his most terrifying nightmare.

Hanging over the entrance to the living room, there’s a piece of mistletoe. Either Mycroft had failed to notice it before or it has been hung rather recently, Mycroft can’t tell for sure, but the point remains: the plant hangs on the ceiling, now over their heads and Gregory’s family encourage them to follow tradition.

 _Encourage_ is, of course, used lightly. Gregory’s brothers are hooting while their wives laugh merrily and Leonor and Gregor smile indulgently, leaning closer to one another, but their gazes are all fixed on them and Mycroft freezes, like a deer caught in the highlights, incapable of thinking, let alone moving.

Next thing he knows, Gregory is cupping his face with all the tenderness in the world, his touch light, almost wary, eyes impossibly sad and _apologetic._ There’s nothing to apologize for, of course, it’s not like Mycroft doesn’t want him to kiss him, but--

He leans forward without thinking, compensating for the height difference without any conscious thought. Gregory’s lips fit against his almost perfectly and while it’d have been easy to keep it light and chaste, Mycroft finds himself responding to the kiss. It’s not, by far, a passionate response, but he still kisses back, delicate and somewhat nervous, but not wary, because he knows, deep in his bones, that there’s nothing wrong with this.

It last either a second or an eternity, it’s hard to tell for sure, but they have to pull away eventually and Mycroft blinks slowly, his brain coming back online bit by bit and he gazes into Gregory’s eyes, wondering what happens next.

His partner smiles, eyes soft but there’s something else lurking in them that Mycroft can’t interpret (or maybe he simply doesn’t want to) and then Gregory turns to his family, a rather plastic grin plastered on his face. “There, happy?” he asks and his brothers hoot once more and Mycroft smiles, because he figures there’s nothing else to do.

But the feeling of Gregory’s lips on his lingers and his mind keeps coming back to it over and over for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

In Mycroft’s treacherous fantasies, Gregory always kissed him hard and dirty, usually pressed against a wall, a moment more born out of adrenaline and passion than any tenderness or romance.

Those fantasies have nothing on the real thing.

He always imagined that if they were to kiss, there’d be little lead up to it. It’d be a spur of the moment thing, not a conscious decision and certainly with no expectations other than getting in bed attached.

Now though--

It wasn’t a real kiss, though, Mycroft reasons with himself. It wasn’t that Gregory really wanted to kiss him, the tenderness with which he hold him means nothing at all. There’s no point in spending the night dissecting every second of the kiss, there’s no point in trying to figure out when exactly did Mycroft wrap his arms around Gregory’s waist, not whether or not the contented hum he made was real or just in Mycroft’ head.

And yet that’s exactly what he’s going to do, isn’t it? Because he’s a masochist, with no real concern for his own peace of mind, with no particular desire to spare himself of any pain. It’s probably all he’ll ever have, the closest thing to a real kiss he’ll ever get and so--

“I’m terribly sorry,” Gregory tells him softly, once they’ve retired for the night, lying close in bed together, their faces impossible to see in the dim light of the moon. “I didn’t mean-- was it your first kiss?”

Was it? In some ways, he supposes, although-- “Hardly. I might have never been involved with someone, but when going undercover… it’s a good way to get people’s attention away from you.” He shrugs or at least he tries to.

Gregory hums, seemingly more relaxed and Mycroft does not wish to discuss the subject and yet he does. It would hardly have been his first fake kiss, but it’d have been the first real one. Except Gregory didn’t mean it like that even if Mycroft did, which leaves the question: does it count as _real_ then? What counts and what doesn’t, in this relationship of theirs?

There’s no use on lingering on the idea, no use on torturing himself with the replay of the memory over and over again. It’s done and it’s in the past and it’s likely there won’t be a second time.

And there’s nothing be done about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I told you there was a kiss coming… but it course it solved absolutely nothing :P  
> Next update might take a bit longer. I’m off work till january 2nd, but maybe I’ll manage to honour the long standing tradition of posting something on my birthday (december 27th). In any case, I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? A new update? Yes, it is!
> 
> I’m so terribly sorry about the late update! I wanted to write, I swear I did, but life (and family) got in the way and well… I couldn’t manage. I posted [a little something ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249705)on New Year’s, but I had written it ages ago and just hadn’t got around posting it :P
> 
> Anyway, I’m back at work and so updates should be… a bit steadier, hopefully ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

Greg wakes up reluctantly, not wanting to give up on the rather lovely dream he’s having. Oh, he’s well aware it’s just a dream, has been aware of the fact from the very beginning: only in his dreams would he be kissing so enthusiastically the man he’s madly in love, not to mention he’s being kissed back with equal enthusiasm.

Of course it’s only a dream.

Unfortunately though, there seems to be something in the waking world demanding his urgent attention and so he has no choice but to open his eyes, murmuring something that wants to be a protest but it’s just a bunch of incoherent mumbling.

He’s vaguely aware of the bed dipping and of his bedmate scurrying away in a rush. Greg frowns, wondering what that was about and so he forces himself to wake up fully, looking around the room in an effort to piece together what’s happening.

Slowly, memories start coming back and he soon realizes that what woke him up was Mycroft’s attempt to escape his deadly grip around his waist. Now, this wouldn’t be concerning, not really; sometimes nature calls with such urgency one can not afford a polite word to one’s bedmate but then Greg realizes, with some horror, that his… eh…  _ enthusiasm _ from the dream has transferred into the waking world in the form of a rather (if he might say so himself) impressive erection.

Goddammit.

Surely that’s not what prompted Mycroft’s graceless escape? He groans, burying his face on the pillow, which of course just makes his problem more pressing, seeing it smells of Mycroft’s usual perfume. He groans once more, thinking he really couldn’t have had a worst timing.

It was rather inevitable they’d wake up to this problem sooner or later. It’s just a perfectly natural function, people all over the world suffer from morning woods. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really and it can be quite fun, when one happens to be a more than willing partner, but even if that’s not the case (as this happens to be) it shouldn’t be a great source of embarrassment. Sure, he assumed some awkward attempts to explain and a whole lot of blushing would take place when the situation arised, but he didn’t expect Mycroft to practically bolt from the bed in an effort to get as far away from him and his little  _ morning problem _ as possible.

It probably doesn’t help what happened last night, Greg musses unhappily. He knew getting carried away with that stolen kiss would come back to bite him in the ass, but he didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Particularly because he hadn’t detected any uncomfortableness raditing from his fake _ fiancé _ afterwards; in fact, he had dared to hope his brothers’ idea of a practical joke would turn on his favour for once in his life!

_ Dammit all,  _ he thinks to himself morosely before forcing himself out of the bed. In the light of his slight panic, his problem has diminished somewhat, enough for his loose pants to hide it a bit if he happened to walk into someone or if, god forbid, his dearest brother-in-law happened to wake up right then. From his spot on the floor, Max looks up at him curiously, head tilted to the side, as if asking what’s all the fuss about and Greg huffs, shaking his head.

Should he go after Mycroft, try to explain? What’s there to explain, really? It’s not-- he didn’t mean--

Oh dear god. What if he…  _ rubbed  _ himself against his bedmate? Was that why his companion left in such rush? Good god, what must Mycroft think?! All the progress they’ve made so far, Greg can see it crumbling in just a few minutes due stupid bodily reactions. All the intimacy they’ve gained, lost in a few seconds of--

The door opens and Greg looks up immediately. Mycroft stands by the door, looking a little worse for wear, face red as a tomato. Greg gulps nervously, wondering if this is how their little fiction falls apart, vaguely wondering how is he going to explain to his family Mycroft’s sudden decision to call the engagement off. Oh god, what--

“Sorry about that,” Mycroft whispers softly, staring at the floor. “I just-- I needed to step out for a minute.” He does not meet Greg’s eyes, but it occurs him that maybe Mycroft is as unwilling as himself to discuss the whole matter. Maybe he’s embarrassed too and maybe trying to explain will do nothing but make things worse.

“It’s fine,” Greg says, with a smile so painfully fake that he can’t keep it for longer than a couple of seconds. “I think-- I’ll step out for a minute too, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft nods, a soft blush creeping over his cheeks once more and Greg hurries out of the room, careful not to touch his companion on his way out. Although his erection has flagged by now, maybe it’d be wise to do something so the problem won’t rise again in a while. Then again…

Oh, good lord. What a nightmare.

* * *

 

The goodbyes are a little more teary than Greg predicted and it’s evidently quite baffling for both Holmes brothers. Mycroft promises to visit as soon as he gets some days off, although it’s clear he’s quite puzzled on  _ why _ would they’d ever want to see him again. Sherlock is sent off with a tray of freshly baked cookies and a hug and he doesn’t know what to do with either (although he eats all the cookies shortly after, obviously). Greg’s heart aches for them and he thinks that it’s lucky the Holmes parents are dead, since he’d be having  _ words  _ with them otherwise.

Then again, if the Holmes parents were alive, none of this would be happening, so he supposes the point is rather moot.

“You know, even if you end up divorced, you’ll have to bring the kid around for the holidays,” Hugh tells him jokingly as he hugs him goodbye. “Mum would never forgive you otherwise.”

“Not that they’ll ever forgive you if you get divorced,” Theo points out. “I reckon they’re half in love with your fiancé already.”

They’re joking and they mean it good naturedly, but Greg’s smile is pained and totally faked. If they knew--

But he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. No use in torturing himself with such thoughts just yet.

He thinks of what Sally said, about staying married forever to avoid further complications and he wonders just how crazy that would be.

The answer is, of course,  _ total nuts. _

And yet, he wonders.

* * *

 

“I want a dog,” Sherlock announces in the middle of the trip back home. It doesn’t really take either of them by surprise, Greg doesn’t think, but Mycroft tenses just the smallest bit, his jaw clenching and he wonders what’s that about.

“We’ll have to think about it,” Greg replies non committedly, reaching for Mycroft’s knee on instinct, squeezing in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “A pet is a big commitment.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest and Greg notices his companion has tensed further at his words, but he figures now is not the best of times to ask. 

_ Later,  _ he thinks and so they continue their drive in silence.

* * *

 

_ Finally home,  _ Greg thinks, as he drops their bags inside the flat. Mycroft and Sherlock are arguing over dinner; Sherlock has filled himself with cookies and so isn’t hungry and Mycroft insists he must eat something, something actually healthy preferably.

A smile comes unbidden to his lips, warmth spreading across his chest. It’s easier, Greg thinks, when there’s just them and so he doesn’t need to constantly remind himself none of this is real. When he can allow himself to believe that this is his family now, that this is his  _ home,  _ that he  _ belongs  _ somehow.

“Well, I’m not the one who needs to watch his weight, Fatcroft!  _ You _ should have laid off the cookies,” Sherlock says and Greg rolls his eyes, wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s waist.

“Your brother isn’t fat, Sherlock,” he says sternly. “Apologize, now.”

The teen huffs. “Well, I guess it’s true. Love is blind.” Sherlock replies, arms crossed over his chest and he turns around, heading for his bedroom.

“We’re not done, young man!” Greg calls after him, but then he turns to Mycroft, a smile already on his lips and a comment about how they need to be a bit more strict with him and he notices the  _ pained  _ expression on Mycroft’s face. “Are you alright?” he asks, immediately growing concerned.

“Fine,” Mycroft says, snapping out of whatever he was thinking. “I-- Are you hungry? I was thinking sushi--”

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupts firmly, but gently, taking his companion’s hands in his. “Are you alright?”

Mycroft stares at him for a beat, before shaking his head, defeated. “Nothing ever escapes you, does it?” he asks softly, sad. “It’s just-- Sherlock’s jab stuck a little too close for comfort.”

Greg can’t help the snort that escapes him. “Nonsense. You’re far from fat.”

Mycroft bites his lip. “I do tend to gain weight quickly. I shouldn’t have-- in fact, I probably need to lay off the morning croissants too--”

There’s, evidently, something bigger at play here. “Mycroft, you know you can tell me anything, right?” Greg asks, rubbing soothing circles over his companion’s wrist. “It’s okay.”

Mycroft sighs. “My mother used to… she always said I needed to watch my weight if I was ever going to catch someone’s attention. She used to say that my looks were detrimental enough and if I added--”

Good god. “That’s a bunch of bullshit,” Greg says and Mycroft bites his lip, a guilty expression on his face. “And you probably already knew it, but in case you didn’t-- I’m telling you, Mycroft, you’re gorgeous. And in any case, your mother’s words-- god, I can’t even--”

“I know,” Mycroft murmurs with a small shrug. “I don’t-- Sherlock doesn’t mean to be cruel, not really, but he grew up hearing Mummy and I think-- And I know I shouldn’t--”

_ Words, indeed,  _ Greg thinks. At lost of what he can possibly say, he pulls the other man into a hug and Mycroft returns it tentatively after a bit, burying his face in Greg’s neck despite the awkward angle. “I’ll talk to your brother,” Greg says, rubbing his companion’s back. “Meanwhile, why don’t you order something? I’m in the mood for something greasy and full of calories.”

Mycroft chuckles, perhaps a bit wetly and Greg squeezes him harder.

What a mess.

* * *

 

Greg might not be able to talk to the Holmes parents, but he certainly can talk to Sherlock. The teen pouts and protests and sulks, but he eventually relents and does apologize to his brother and Greg supposes it counts as progress.

“Now, about the dog--” Sherlock begins and Greg groans.

He should have known.

* * *

 

Mycroft is in the bathroom, washing his teeth and Greg stands by the door of their shared bedroom, contemplating his options. During the day it was easy enough to ignore what happened in the wee hours of the morning or at least to push the incident to the back of his mind, telling himself he had bigger concerns than that. Now, however, the night has fallen and so--

He pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to fend off the headache he can feel coming. Should he say something? Or should he just get into bed and pretend nothing is amiss? Should he attempt to cuddle Mycroft tonight or should he try to stay on his side of the bed for once? Should he go sleep on the couch?

That would rise questions, of course and Greg isn’t sure he wants to deal with Sherlock asking said questions. So he should stay, probably, but--

The bathroom door opens and Mycroft steps out, scowling at something on his phone. Happy to continue ignoring his dilemma for a little longer, Greg decides that’s the perfect subject to discuss right then and there. “Everything alright?”

Mycroft startles, evidently having been distracted by whatever he was reading. Greg bites his lip guiltily, but he can’t help the stray thought of just how  _ adorable  _ the other man looks right then. “Yes,” Mycroft says finally, climbing into bed and dropping his phone on the night table. “Just… I had forgotten about the New Year’s party.”

“Party?” Greg asks, approaching his companion, climbing onto the other side of the bed.

“Yes,” Mycroft says, distaste evident on his voice. “Unfortunately, it’s considered poor taste not to attend and so I usually do, if only for a little while but this year-- well, Alice has just texted me, asking if I’m going to bring you along.”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ “Embarrassed, are you?” he asks, only half joking.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft interrupts sharply. “Why would I be embarrassed of you?” 

Greg bites his lip. “Listen, I can probably… I mean, I’m not as  _ fancy  _ as half of the people you know, but…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupts and Greg has never been a fan of being called by his whole name, but hearing Mycroft say it never fails to give him an special kind of thrill. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he repeats and Greg smiles bashfully. “I just-- You’ll probably get bored. Unfortunately, my coworkers aren’t the most interesting people.”

Greg chuckles. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll have you to keep me company, right?”

Mycroft smiles slyly. “I wouldn’t say I’m the most pleasing of companies… although I’m probably more tolerable than my coworkers.”

Again, Greg chuckles. “Oh dear, I’d pick you over anyone, anytime.”

Oh god. That probably… did he say to much? Is he betraying his feelings too much? 

Mycroft watches him in silence for a beat, a curious expression on his face, eyes soft and somewhat sad. Greg wonders why, but he doesn’t dare to ask. “What about Sherlock?” he asks instead, once the silence becomes unbearable. “Do you think it’s wise, bring him along?”

“Not if we value the safety of the nation,” Mycroft replies, looking away. “But apparently, he’s received an invitation of his own to spend the New Year.”

“Oh?”

Mycroft smiles, a soft small thing. “Friends do have their uses, apparently.”

Greg laughs, shoving Mycroft’s shoulder playfully, earning himself a small chuckle from his companion. “See? I told you getting him into school was a good idea.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees, a most curious expression on his face. For a beat, neither says anything, simply staring at each other thoughtfully. Greg’s eyes drop to Mycroft’s lips on their own accord, remembering how soft and pilliant they felt underneath his just the night before and he wonders, just for a second, what would happen if he leaned forward and captured them once more.

But it’s an idle thought that he hurries to shove into the back of his mind, forcing himself to focus on the reality. “We probably should… go to sleep,” Mycroft says, almost reluctantly.

“Yes,” Greg agrees and he wonders if he sounds as disappointed as he feels. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Mycroft replies, lying down on his side, his back to Greg, looking slightly tense, uncertain. They, somehow, have successfully avoided discussing both this morning and last night and Greg wonders if that’s a good thing or not.

Greg lies down too, tentatively placing an arm around Mycroft’s middle, half convinced he’s about to be pushed away but, against all odds, the other man relaxes into the embrace instead, making a soft contented sound that makes Greg’s heart flutter.

Well.

Not all is lost then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> My original intention was for this chapter to be posted on my birthday and the next one on actual New Year’s Eve but well… it didn’t work out. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it regardless?  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Work’s been more than a little slow, but maybe that’ll change very soon so… better to write and post as much as I possibly can ;)  
> Enjoy!

“He’s going to be fine, you know? It’s just for the night.”

Mycroft nods, but he doesn’t feel convinced. He continues staring at the front door of the small house his brother has just entered, half tempted to go and knock on the door, come up with an excuse on why Sherlock can’t stay after all.

“Mrs. Watson doesn’t seem inclined to tolerate any foolishness,” Gregory continues, in what he probably thinks it’s a reassuring manner. “He’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Mycroft bites his lip, already reaching for the car’s door handle, but his companion places a hand over his knee, stilling him. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I just-- he’s never-- friends weren’t--”

“I know,” Gregory says, tone perfectly calm and reasonable. “But he’s a big boy and he has a friend now, a very close friend by the looks of it, so it’s just natural they want to spend time together.”

Mycroft bites his lip a bit harsher. “But--”

“He’ll be fine,” the other man repeats, squeezing his knee comfortingly. “You need to trust that.”

Easier said than done, Mycroft thinks sulkily but he does relent. “Let’s get out of here before I do something foolish,” he murmurs, earning himself a soft chuckle for his companion, his heart fluttering at the sound. “I must say, I don’t really understand this friend-business,” he says, staring outside the window as Gregory starts driving off. “Is it normal for them to text at all times?”

“Well, I didn’t really see him texting while we were at my parents’,” Gregory points out. “So  _ at all times _ is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

Mycroft pursues his lips unhappily. “I also didn’t see him, but his texts seem to indicate otherwise. Not sure when he found the time, between eating cookies and playing with the dog, but--”

“Wait, you looked into his phone?” Gregory interrupts, sparing a quick look in his direction and Mycroft bites his lip once more, guiltily. “Mycroft, that’s… it’s a breach of privacy, you know? Even if you’re concerned about him… you need to respect his privacy.”

He knows. What’s more, he knows that’s exactly the type of thing his parents would have done: check who he was talking to and about what and, of course, they’d try to control such interactions. It’s probably also the reason why neither he nor Gregory noticed Sherlock texting; he’s probably become an expert in hiding things.

“I know,” he murmurs defeatedly, wringing his hands. “I just-- I worry about him.”

His companion sighs, reaching for his knee once more, offering another comforting squeeze. “I know. But you need to trust he’ll come to you if something happens. As with every other relationship, it’s all about trust and he’s not going to trust you if he feels you’re spying on him and trying to control him.”

He knows. God, does he know. But-- “Is that what your parents did?” he asks and he’s well aware of how vulnerable he sounds and he  _ hates it,  _ he absolutely hates it and yet--

Gregory hums, considering. “You know there’s no real manual to parenting, right? So what worked for some might not work for others but generally speaking… yes. They just always made it very clear I could come to them about anything.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

Gregory shakes his head. “Your brother trusts you, Mycroft. And he loves you too, even if he’s not sure how to go about showing it. But you need to show him  _ you trust him too. _ ”

Mycroft tapes his fingers against his knee nervously. “At home...  _ communication  _ wasn’t exactly encouraged. I-- I would have never expected my parents to help me with… anything, really.”

“But were you the same with Sherlock? Did you turn your back at him when he needed help?”

“I--” Did he? “When I left for collage--”

“Mycroft, you can not-- I mean, sure, your brother was stuck with your parents after you left, but it’s not like-- you were there for him when he needed it, weren’t you? You didn’t completely forget all about him, did you?”

“Well, no but-- our contact was severely limited. And I--”

“And that’s not your fault,” Gregory interrupts gently, stopping for a red light and so getting the chance to turn to him fully. “Your family situation wasn’t… ideal, but you did the best you could for your brother. And he knows it.”

Does he? “I get the feeling he… resents me.”

Gregory sighs. “That’s not for me to say,” he murmurs, taking Mycroft’s hand in his. “Given everything… I suppose it’s possible. But it’s not the fault of either of you and all you can do now is try to move forward.” 

Something in Gregory’s tone is infinitely reassuring or maybe that’s just Mycroft’s utter trust in the man, but either way he does feel slightly better. He had known, of course, that looking after his brother wouldn’t be an easy task and he had felt thoroughly unprepared for it but he had also known he couldn’t possibly trust someone else with such task and now--

He’s more than a little thankful that he doesn’t need to do it on his own, even if this arrangement is only temporary. He doesn’t know what he’d do without the man currently at his side; he’d probably feel more lost than he does now.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing his companion’s hand. “For everything, really.”

Gregory smiles, a small shy thing and then he looks away, since the light has turned green once more.

It’s lucky, Mycroft thinks, that he’ll get to keep Gregory for the next two years.

And yet--

* * *

 

The main reason why Mycroft doesn’t really like attending the New Years Eve’s party isn’t because he hates socializing (although it’s certainly a reason); it’s because he finds it nerve wracking. When you put together so many self important people in such a small place, egos are bound to be bruised, misunderstandings are likely to arise and since everyone is convinced they’re more important than everyone else, they’ll engage in all sort of petty arguments over who can do what.

Smoothing things down is exhausting to say at least and Mycroft’s nerves are usually fried by the end of the night, no matter the pains he takes to ensure he has to interact with as few people as possible. 

Tonight though, his main concern isn’t that someone manages to start a war by offending another someone and yet oh, how he wishes it was. He’s well aware of Gregory’s many charms, naturally and there’s simply not denying how attractive he is and while in his line of work  _ attachments  _ might be frown upon, casual  _ entanglements  _ are rather the norm.

He turns around sharply, heading for one of the balconies, telling himself to keep on breathing, fighting his annoyance at the sight he has just witnessed. He wonders if his (fake) fiancé is aware of the fact that he’s being flirted with, if he realizes any of the people that’s currently talking to him would be more than happy to take him home with them. 

The night air does little to calm his frayed nerves. Mycroft is all too aware of his shortcomings; he realizes the people his (fake) fiancé is currently talking to are, by far, much more attractive and charming than himself. He wouldn’t blame Gregory if he choose to leave with someone else tonight, especially since--

He holds back a groan, figuring it’d be undignified. Mycroft’s interest in relationships has always been almost non existent and while in his teenage years he was a little curious about the whole sex business, he’s well past such interest.

But--

Maybe, he thinks, he should have listened to his instincts, when they told him to run away as far away as possible from the young Constable he meet three years ago. Gregory had smiled at him and Mycroft had know he was trouble, but he had shoved all his very reasonable concerns to the back of his mind and accepted the man’s overtures of friendship without much wariness. He shouldn’t have, he knows and yet--

He doesn’t regret it, not really.

He taps his fingers against the balcony rail, considering. He’s enjoyed this time they’ve spent together, this curious intimacy they’ve built in just a little bit of time living together. He believes Gregory has enjoyed it too, but something else… well, Mycroft isn’t sure Gregory would welcome anything else, even if Mycroft felt confident enough to offer it.

He thinks of what happened a few nights ago, of his gross breach of trust. He thinks of Gregory’s body pressed against his, his warmth so beckoning he had had no trouble allowing himself to press closer. He thinks of what happened later; he had known Gregory was asleep, lost in his own pleasant dream but he had allowed himself to pretend, just for the tiniest bit,that it was actually him who he wanted and by the time he had realized what he was doing--

He had bolted out of bed or at least attempted to. Of course he had woken Gregory up, with his graceless escape and so when he came back, flustered and  _ aching,  _ he had no other choice but to let the other man believe he was simply feeling embarrassed. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either: he wasn’t embarrassed due Gregory’s actions, but his own. He had been awake and yet--

_ Shit,  _ he thinks, holding his head between his arms, still leaning against the rail. What a sad pathetic image he must be, but he can’t bring himself to pull himself together just yet. He can’t bring himself to go back to the party, he does not wish to see his (fake) fiancé leaving with someone else. Although he supposes Gregory wouldn’t, worried about Mycroft’s own reputation, about the _ talk  _ it’d inspire, but maybe--

“A most handsome fellow, that fiancé of yours,” a voice calls and Mycroft hurries to straighten up, turning to face the newcomer, a perfectly blank expression on his face. “A total keeper.”

“Alice,” Mycroft greets with a polite nod of his head. “I hadn’t seen you tonight.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised,” the woman says, smile sharp. “You didn’t have eyes for anyone other than your fiancé. Before you disappeared on him, of course.” She steps closer, leaning on the rail. “You should know better than to leave a cute little lamb like him with a pack of wolves.”

Mycroft tries to keep his expression from betraying his emotions, shrugging in what he hopes is a casual manner. “Gregory is a grown man, he can look after himself. I-- I needed some air.”

“I’m sure,” Alice replies simply, still watching him like a hawk. “Dreadful things, these parties, don’t you think? It’s just one big disaster waiting to happen.”

Mycroft snorts. “Too many egos in one place,” he agrees, not sure what the woman’s intention is, deciding to proceed with caution anyway.

“Yes,” she agrees after a beat. “And the food is dreadful too. But the music-- you dance, don’t you?”

Mycroft considers this. It’s an idle comment and he wouldn’t have thought much of it in the past, but in the light of what he has found about Mrs. Smallwood and her past attempts of…  _ flirting  _ with him…

She rolls her eyes. “I’m saying you should ask your fiancé, you dummy,” she says fondly. “Now, I wouldn’t say no to a bit of sport with you two, but I do know one ought to back down when someone is actually madly in love.” She smirks as Mycroft blushes furiously. “Unlike all those wolves you left your fiancé with. So… go on, off you go.”

Mycroft bites his lip, considering and the woman rolls her eyes once more before turning around and heading back for the party. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she shouts back and Mycroft watches her go, still thinking about her words.

He has no claim over Gregory, he knows. He shouldn’t-- And yet--

He should get back to party, really.

* * *

 

“There you are,” Gregory says, tone full of fondness and perhaps just the slightest bit of desperation. “I thought you were just going to get us drinks?” he says, carefully extricating himself from the hold one of his interlocutors has on his arm, stepping closer to Mycroft.

“Something came up,” Mycroft says, slipping an arm around his companion’s waist, pulling him close. “I do apologize.”

Gregory watches him funnily for a beat, but he doesn’t ask questions. Mycroft didn’t procured them drinks either and his companion does look a little thirsty, but leaving him again wouldn’t be a good idea, he doesn’t think.

“The music is rather lovely,” he says, prompting a curious look from his partner. “I was thinking… perhaps you’d like to dance?” He feels awkward, his words inadequate somehow, but Gregory’s face lights up, at the prospect of leaving their current company or actually dancing, Mycroft does not know and yet, it warms something inside him.

“Lead the way,” Gregory says, barely mumbling a goodbye to his former company, linking his arm with Mycroft’s, a bright smile on his lips. 

Mycroft looks at their joined arms and wonders.

* * *

 

“You actually know how to do this,” Gregory says in wonderment, watching his feet as they move across the dance floor. “I usually just sway along the music, but you actually know how to waltz.”

“I was trained in ballroom dancing,” Mycroft replies, flinching just the slightest bit as his partner steps onto his foot, a guilty  _ sorry  _ following shortly after. “Waltz is relatively simple, compared to other dances.”

“If you say so,” his companion says, eyes fixed on their feet. “But you know how to do the whole thing, right? The dips and whatnot?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have the technical knowledge for us to try anything more complicated,” Mycroft argues calmly. “Your posture alone would have my old teacher throwing a fit.”

Gregory chuckles good naturedly. “I’m supposed to be holding myself a bit more straight, aren’t I?” he leans his head on Mycroft’s chest then, making him miss his next step and sending his heart racing. “But this looks more romantic, don’t you think?” He looks up, just the slightest bit, a small smile on his lips. “Perfect for a recently engaged couple?”

Mycroft’s heart is performing some no doubt unhealthy acrobatics and so it takes him a beat to answer. “Perhaps,” he agrees, looking away before he does something foolish. “But it certainly doesn’t follow the technique.”

Gregory laughs once more, pulling away and Mycroft misses the contact right away. “Perhaps you can teach me to properly ballroom dance for our wedding. It’d be a nice touch, don’t you think?”

For a few seconds, Mycroft can’t breath, let alone talk, overwhelmed by a wave of longing so strong he fears he’ll drown in it. “Yes,” he answers, pushing a stray lock of hair away from Gregory’s face before he can even think about it. “That sounds good.”

The music has stopped and so has the rest of the world. Or at least that’s what it seems to him as he gazes into his (fake) fiancé’s eyes and for a second Mycroft is gripped by the foolish urge to lean down and kiss the other man senseless, to pull him even closer and--

He becomes aware of people cheering and laughing and generally making a lot of noise around them and he blinks confusedly. Gregory is smiling at him, a small sad thing and then he stands on his tip toes, brushing their lips together for the briefest of moments. “Happy New Year, Mycroft,” he whispers and that’s when he realizes he somehow missed the countdown. The world feels surreal, nothing quite solid and all Mycroft can do is stare into his partner’s eyes and try to keep on breathing.

“Happy New Year,” he mumbles finally and the words feel  _ wrong,  _ insufficient, but Gregory smiles, still in his arms and Mycroft finds himself smiling back.

Something is changing, he can tell.

But what or how or  _ why _ he can not say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> My original plans were for the boys not to realize they’re both in love until after the wedding. Then I planed for them to find out before the wedding took place, but like… 5 seconds earlier. And now… well, how believable would it be for them to continue being completely oblivious? Am I pushing it?  
> Let me know what you guys think! Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, a new chapter! I meant to update yesterday, but we’re moving offices and I had to pack. I hate moving so bloody much!  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Greg wakes up with a start, nearly falling down the bed in the process. He manages not to, just barely, but he knows there’s just not getting back to sleep now, so he proceeds to sit up, his back to his bedmate.

The curtains are open, unlike every other morning and Greg squints at the light coming through the window. It’s early, but the sun is already shining even if it produces little warmth. He stretches out, relishing the soft  _ pop _ his back makes and then he simply remains sitting there, staring at nothing.

Back when he slept on his own, he used to do this every morning; the bed wasn’t tempting enough for him to want to continue lying down, but he wasn’t exactly eager to get up so he’d sit, his feet just an inch away from the floor, not quite touching it, just suspended. Caught somewhere between sleep and waking up.

Nowadays though, he usually wakes up with his arms still around Mycroft, the bed so damn tempting it takes him ages to actually convince himself to move. Years of habit, years of waking up early and going for a run eventually get him out of bed, but he never actually wants to.

He looks behind him, wondering what changed today and he can’t help the affectionate smile that comes unbidden to his lips at the sight. Unlike most mornings, Mycroft isn’t lying on his side, curled in such way Greg’s body fits perfectly against his back. Today he’s sprawled over most of the bed, on his stomach, snoring softly, still dressed in last night’s suit. It can’t not be terribly comfortable, Greg doesn’t think, but he looks perfectly calm and relaxed.

Greg turns, leaning down to press a kiss to his companion’s forehead before standing up. Mycroft makes a soft protesting sound and Greg chuckles before he starts searching for his work out clothes. He stares down at his rumpled suit and he makes a face, thinking he’ll have no choice but to have it dry cleaned.

Last night was… something, definitely. They hadn’t intended to stay late, or at least that’s the impression Greg got, but they had ended up arriving home a little past four o’clock. After Mycroft came back from his failed trip to get them drinks, Greg hadn’t expected him to ask him to dance and yet that’s what they ended up doing for the next 4 hours or so. Only when Greg’s feet started protesting did he suggested they stopped and that’s when they decided heading home was probably wiser.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft’s voice pulls him out of his memories and he looks back, to find his companion half sitting on the bed, struggling to keep his eyes open. He looks rather adorable like this, all sleep ruffled, his hair a mess and Greg finds himself wondering, not for the first time, what it’d be like, to be the reason for Mycroft’s less than perfect put together appearance.

A thought better to be considered in the shower, certainly not in present company.

“Morning run,” Greg replies with a small shrug.

Mycroft grunts, flopping back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his hand. “At this unholy hour?”

“It’s nearly 8 o’clock,” Greg finds himself obliged to point out. “Hardly unholy. It’s the time you usually wake up.”

“Not after last night,” Mycroft murmurs sulkily, but he does sit up, rubbing his hands over his face. “Wait for me, will you?”

Greg arches an eyebrow. “You’re coming with me?”

Mycroft hums, rolling out of bed. “New Year’s resolution,” he murmurs, scrunching his nose after noticing the state of his suit and Greg is hard pressed not to laugh. “I should exercise.”

“If you say so,” Greg says, watching as Mycroft goes hunting for something in his closet. He takes his own work out clothes and heads for the bathroom, figuring he might as well give his partner some privacy. “See you in a bit.”

Mycroft grunts in agreement and Greg tries his very best not to imagine said grunt in other circumstances.

He doesn’t exactly succeed.

* * *

 

It should be illegal for work out clothes to be that tight.

It’s not very practical, is it? And it can’t be terribly comfortable either. Sweatpants are meant to be baggy and oversized, not clinging to one’s backside in a terribly distracting manner.

How is Greg supposed to focus on anything other than Mycroft’s ass, really?

It’s embarrassing, truth to be told. He’s not a horny teen, hasn’t been one in a very long time. He knows better than ogling people just because they happen to be wearing particular tight clothing. He definitely ought to know better than to ogle his  _ fake  _ fiancé and yet here he is.

“Are you quite done stretching?” Mycroft asks and Greg does his very best not to stare intently at the tiny bit of skin of his abdomen that shows when he stretches out. For the first part of the stretching exercises Mycroft hadn’t been facing him but he probably noticed Greg has been way too quiet and still for the last few minutes.

“Yes,” Greg blurts out although he knows it’s a lie and his muscles are unlikely to thank him for it. But saying he got distracted is probably not a very wise move, because Mycroft might ask why and that’s one rabbit hole they don’t want to go down, is it? “What about you?”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” he murmurs, a slight pout on his lips and Greg has to bite back a groan.

“You didn’t have to come along if you didn’t want to, you know?” Greg says with what he hopes looks like a natural smile, not at all forced. “I could have brought you your croissants later, as usual.”

Mycroft’s expression turns dreamy and Greg holds back a chuckle. It’s cute how enamored he’s with the pastries, really. “It’s my New Year’s resolution,” Mycroft insists after a beat, shaking himself off his little daydream filled with tasty sweets. “I’ll try to stick to it for once.” Greg arches an eyebrow and his companion shrugs non committedly. “There’s no harm in trying, is there?”

“Certainly,” Greg agrees, smiling. “Shall we, then?”

Mycroft nods, although he looks far from certain and Greg can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. Some people are just not terribly athletic, although he doubts there’s honestly something Mycroft wouldn’t be able to do if he set his mind into it.

And there he goes again, thinking about how perfect his  _ fake  _ fiancé is.

Just perfect.

* * *

 

“I don’t think I’ll be moving in the next week or so,” Mycroft announces very seriously as he collapses on the couch and Greg chuckles, heading for the kitchen to get them more water.

“You’ll have to or it’ll only ache worse,” Greg informs him, getting back with a refilled water bottle. “Here.”

Mycroft takes the water, a mighty pout on his lips. “And there weren’t any croissants today! No sweet reward at the end of that endless torture!”

“Hardly endless,” Greg says, smiling. “But we should have known, really. It’s January 1st.”

“I’ll make a law against cafes closing on the New Year,” Mycroft declares very seriously. “Just watch me.”

“But I thought you were just a minor government official?” Greg says playfully, earning himself a light shove of his shoulder. “I’ll make you breakfast in a beat. Just give me a few minutes to rest.”

“It’s not quite the same,” Mycroft protests softly. “But it’ll have to do.”

“I have mom’s cookies recipe. Can’t promise they’ll be any good, but I can give it a try,” he offers, figuring that’s a good way to keep himself entertained for the day. It’s a real miracle he hasn’t been called in for work: it’s the first time in his life he actually got to spend all his holidays away from the office and, truth to be told, he’s growing a bit restless. 

Mycroft hums. “I suppose we could give it a try,” he says with a shrug. “See if you inherited any of your mother’s talent in the kitchen.” He leans back on the seat, closing his eyes. “We need to pick up Sherlock later, too.”

“Think he had a good time with his friend?”

“Hopefully,” Mycroft murmurs and he sounds half asleep already. Greg smiles, endeared. “Although the fact that Mrs. Watson hasn’t called is a bit troubling: I hope she’s fine.”

Greg hums, standing up and patting his companion’s shoulder. “You should take a shower before napping. Trust me, you’ll regret it otherwise.”

Mycroft hums once more. “I feel like taking a long bath, actually. I should let you shower first, though. Or you could just use the other bathroom, I suppose”

Greg does his very best not to let his mind go wild with the very tempting image that has just been planted into his head. “That’s… yes, thank you. I-- I’ll take the other bathroom, seeing you’re falling asleep already. Just-- try not to drown, alright?”

His companion huffs. “I’ve already had my will drafted, you know? I won’t leave you in the street if I happen to actually drown.”

Greg blinks. That’s-- he doesn’t know what that is. It’s probably something better discussed when his interlocutor isn’t falling asleep. “Do try to be careful anyway. It’s way too early to be making a widower out of me. We haven’t even married!”

Mycroft smiles, soft and relaxed and, Greg suspects, not entirely here so he turns around, heading for the bedroom to find himself some clean clothes, trying not to think about anything too much.

It’s probably for the best.

* * *

 

It turns out, making cookies is a lot more complicated than his mother ever made it look. Greg stares at the end result dubiously, uncertain if they’re edible at all. They aren’t burnt, so he supposes that’s a point in their favour, but--

“Perhaps we should go pick Sherlock up already,” Mycroft says, resting his chin on Greg’s shoulder, inspecting the cookies. He did nap after his bath, while Greg tried (and failed) to make cookies and he looks much more restored now. “Pick something to eat on our way.”

“Are you saying you refuse to eat the cookies that took me so much time and effort to make?” Greg asks, pretending to be hurt and Mycroft rolls his eyes, picking one of the cookies and taking a small bite.

It’s very brave of him, truth to be told. “They’re… alright,” he says finally and Greg arches an eyebrow. “They’re edible, just not very… tasty.”

Greg takes another cookie, chewing it thoughtfully. “We should go pick Sherlock up, definitely,” he says, prompting a soft chuckle from his companion.

Well, at least he tried, didn’t he?

* * *

 

Sherlock isn’t amused by Greg’s attempts of cooking, dramatically claiming they’re trying to poison him before locking himself up in his bedroom  _ until they get some actual food _ . Finding an open take away service is a bit complicated, but they manage and they end up lounging in the living room, watching a rather terrible rom com because it seems there’s nothing else on the telly.

“You’d think that with so many channels, there’d be something to watch,” Greg says, making a face as the couple on the telly finally kiss. “This is terrible.”

“Oh, I agree,” Sherlock says, from his spot on the newly bought puff seat. “You would think they’ve noticed sooner they’re madly in love with each other and yet…” he gestures vaguely. “You wouldn’t think people can truly be that dense.”

There’s something in his tone that Greg can’t quite identify. Next to him, Mycroft shifts just the slightest bit and Greg curls closer to him. It’s nice and comfortable and his fake fiancé doesn’t seem to mind having him curled next to him, so Greg figures it’s all fine.

“I know right? He couldn’t have been more obvious if he had been carrying a sign saying  _ I love you. _ Everyone could tell!”

“And yet did either listen?” Sherlock shakes his head, looking thoroughly amused for some reason. “People are so dumb.”

For some reason, Greg doesn’t think they’re talking about the movie anymore. Mycroft shifts once more and Greg turns to him. “Are you comfortable?” he asks, sitting up a bit straighter.

“Yes, fine,” Mycroft murmurs, although he doesn’t look  _ fine.  _ “Just… perhaps we should go to bed already. You do have to work tomorrow.”

Greg groans, hiding his face in his partner’s neck. “Must I?”

“You could always be a kept husband,” Sherlock points out. “I’m sure Mycroft wouldn’t mind, would you, brother dear?”

Mycroft huffs, running his fingers through Greg’s hair. “I doubt Gregory would enjoy it,” he murmurs and Greg hums.

“Probably not,” he agrees after a beat. “Alright then, time for bed.” He stands up, turning to look at his companion who hasn’t moved. “Aren’t you coming?”

Mycroft and Sherlock are seemingly having a whole silent conversation and Greg waits for a beat for them to finish, before deciding it’s probably going to take a while. With a shrug, he heads for the bedroom, figuring he really does need to get some sleep.

Ah, the _ joys _ of adulthood.

* * *

 

“So, how were your holidays?” Sally asks, perching herself on the corner of Greg’s desk. “How’s your family? Did they like your fiancé, made you rethink the wisdom of your plan?”

“Hello, Sally. Happy New Year to you too.” The woman rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “It was fine, thank you. My parents adored Mycroft, as I predicted they would.” He smiles or at least attempts to. “The wedding will proceed as planned.”

Sally sighs dramatically. “I thought that’d be the case,” she says. “So, I’ve narrowed the choice of venues to two. I was thinking we could visit them after work, assuming nothing comes up?”

Ah, wedding planning. How fun! “Sure,” he says and wonders if wishing for a murder makes him a bad person. “Sounds like fun.”

Sally rolls her eyes once more and stands up, heading for her own desk. The wedding is getting closer and closer and, despite knowing it’s not real, he can’t help to be happy at the idea.

He glances at his engagement ring, a soft smile on his lips.

_ Soon,  _ he thinks.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> There’s nothing really happening in this chapter, but I figured we’re going to have a couple of filler chapters before we go back to the angst and the heavy pining :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Again, not much happening just yet but I swear it all serves a purpose. More or less :P  
> Anyway, in the meantime, enjoy?

“Aww, aren’t you two cute?”

Mycroft throws a glare over his shoulder at the newcomer and Gregory chuckles amusedly. “That bad, huh?” his fake fiancé asks, perching himself on the couch armrest, watching as Sherlock snores softly against Mycroft’s shoulder. The movie was so terribly boring Mycroft must have dozed off at some point, since he doesn’t actually remember his brother falling asleep on him.

“Apparently so,” Mycroft murmurs. “Now I can’t move without risking waking him up. He sleeps entirely too little, you know?”

“I’ve heard him pacing around the flat in the middle of the night, yes,” Gregory agrees, a fond smile on his lips. “Gave me a right fright the first time around.” Mycroft huffs and his companion turns his attention to him and Mycroft can feel his insides melting with affection. “Here, let me help you.”

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Mycroft warns, but Gregory somehow manages to pick up his brother with little effort. Sherlock makes a soft protesting sound, making both adults freeze, but then he curls in Gregory’s arms, still fast asleep.

His companion smiles briefly before heading in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. His little brother would be horrified at learning just how many times he’s been carried around lately, but Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to wake him up. He does sleep too little and teens need lots and lots of sleep, don’t they?

He stands up, stretching out. His arm hurts a little, his brother’s weight having caused it to fall asleep, but he supposes he’ll live. “Are you hungry?” Gregory asks, having come back into the living room, a soft fond smile on his lips. “I was thinking pasta.”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “Your usual order?”

“I was actually thinking of making it,” Gregory says, much to his surprise. “I promise I can actually make a decent pasta,” he adds after a beat, probably recalling the cookies he made just the day before.

Mycroft hums. “I suppose I can give you the benefit of the doubt,” he says with a smile and Gregory chuckles.

If asked, Mycroft would have never pictured himself as the kind of person who enjoys _domesticity._

And yet--

 

* * *

 

“So, I was thinking… do you have any plans for Sherlock’s birthday?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer right away. He has an idea of where this conversation is heading and he’s not entirely sure he wants to have it, although he supposes… “Not really. We didn’t… it’s not something we used to celebrate at home.”

Gregory hums thoughtfully, still stirring the pasta sauce, his back at Mycroft. His posture is deliberately relaxed, but it’s clear as water he’s preparing himself for a _conversation._ “Well, I suppose we could just get him a cake. It’s just… I’m a bit reluctant to let it go unnoticed, all things considered.” He looks over his shoulder, a small smile on his lips and Mycroft bites his lip.

“That’s probably a good idea, although I have the slight suspicion Sherlock would be much happier if we just let him run wild in London with Mr. Watson in tow. Not that that’s very wise, but I’m hopeful they won’t cause too much trouble.”

“ _Let him run wild,_ ” Gregory repeats, a light chuckle escaping him. “He’ll probably enjoy that. I remember when I was 14, I wasn’t exactly keen on spending time with my folks.” He huffs, shaking his head amusedly. “Good god, when did I get this old?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes good naturedly. “I don’t think either of us is particularly old,” he argues with a small shrug. “But Sherlock would probably prefer to spend the day with someone around his age. Besides, isn’t that another use for _friends_?”

“To keep you entertained on your birthday?” Gregory asks, tone light. “I suppose.” He finally serves dinner, turning to face Mycroft. “So I suppose that’s settled. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

“Well, London still stands after letting him spend the night at Mr. Watson’s, so I suppose it won’t be too terrible,” he says, smiling softly. “How was work, by the way?”

Gregory throws him a look and Mycroft tries (and fails) to pretend innocence. “Nice attempt to deflect, but you know what I want to discuss.”

Mycroft sighs. “Is this about the dog?”

“Yes,” his companion states, placing a plate in front of him and going to pour them both some wine. “You seem quite reluctant. Not that I blame you exactly, because we do have little time and not a lot of space and you’re quite… picky about your clothes and you probably don’t want dog hair in them.” Mycroft makes a face, thinking that that’s something he definitely doesn’t want. “But I can’t help thinking there’s a bigger reason for your reluctance.”

Mycroft sighs, rubbing his temples tiredly. “I should have known better than to get engaged to a detective,” he murmurs sulkily, earning himself a wide grin from his companion. “I got Sherlock a dog for his fifth birthday,” he confesses finally, dropping his eyes to his plate since he doesn’t really want to see Gregory’s expression when he finishes his tale. “He-- it was the smallest ball of fluff, really. Sherlock adored him-- _it_ , right away but my parents weren’t exactly happy about the development. Dogs, specially pups, need a lot of care and they tend to be… mischievous when they’re young.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant memory. “Sherlock cried and pleaded, but it was no use once Mummy made up her mind and I was at college, so I didn’t find out until much later and by then it was too late, naturally. I don’t… I don’t think he actually remembers it? Mummy destroyed the few photos there were and he was very young so maybe…” he shrugs. “It wasn’t very pleasant, though. I think that’s one of the biggest arguments I ever had with Mummy, I mean-- it was a pup! He didn’t-- it wasn’t-- god, what kind of monster--” he interrupts himself sharply, biting his lip. He’s getting too overemotional, over a bloody dog, goddammit. _You’re being ridiculous, dear. Not even your brother got this emotional and he’s five._

“Mycroft,” Gregory is at his side now, holding his hands in his, eyes infinitely sad. There’s no pity in them, just honest grief and perhaps some anger and Mycroft realizes just how tense he’s gone, so he forces himself to relax. “I’m sorry,” his companion murmurs, drawing circles over his knuckles with his thumbs. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, honest, _earnest_ and Mycroft wonders, not for the first time, what he did to deserve this wonderful man’s friendship.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says finally. “I-- It’s not a pleasant subject to recall.”

“I imagine,” Gregory says softly. “Before my parents got Max, we used to have a little cocker spaniel named Cookie. I cried for weeks after she passed away,” he tells him squeezing his hands. “There’s no shame in loving a pet.”

He supposes there isn’t. But-- “I barely… I left for school two days after gifting Redbeard to Sherlock, it shouldn’t--”

“Mycroft,” his companion interrupts once more. His gaze is kind and full of understanding and Mycroft sighs, looking away.

“I feel guilty,” Mycroft confesses softly, reluctantly.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gregory insists and Mycroft figures they can argue the subject all night long and they’ll still get nowhere. “Perhaps we should look for another gift. How about some dangerous chemicals? I’m sure Sherlock would love those.”

Mycroft can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him and Gregory grins, pleased. “He probably would, but it’s probably all kinds of unwise.” He squeezes his companion’s hand, relishing the warmth of it, ignoring the acrobatics his heart is engaging into. “The dog is probably a better idea, but perhaps something not very big?”

“I’m onto it,” Gregory declares solemnly, squeezing his hand once more before letting go and taking his seat at the other side of the table. He offers him a smile and Mycroft smiles too; Gregory’s smiles never fail to make him feel much better.

“This is actually good,” he says after a while, having finally tasted the pasta. “I didn’t have much hopes after the cookies incident, but this is actually very tasty.”

“You have so little faith in me,” Gregory says dramatically, pretending hurt, and Mycroft rolls his eyes goodnaturedly.

It seems so natural.

Why can’t it last?

* * *

 

Work is, rather predictably, hellish. Mycroft rarely takes days off and when he does, he usually comes back to one national crisis or another, so he’s not surprised to see the mess things have turned into in his absence. A part of him had wanted to stay home, spend Sherlock’s birthday with him, but his little brother had school to attend in the morning and apparently he and Mr. Watson already had plans for the afternoon, so he had supposed it was for the bes that he went to work.

Gregory had offered to go find Sherlock his gift and while Mycroft is still unsure about the wiseness of the decision, he had thought it’d be for the best. He supposes there’s a part of him that will never quite forgive himself for what happened to Redbeard and he’s not exactly thrilled at the prospect of acquiring a new dog, but his brother had seemed ridiculously happy at the idea, so…

There’s very little he wouldn’t do for his baby brother.

Isn’t that what got him in this little perfect hell of his?

 

* * *

 

“That’s not a small dog,” Mycroft says as the _giant_ ball of fluff approaches him. He’s not terribly familiar with dog’s breeds, but he does know this must be one of those giants ones, mostly all grown up.

That’s not, by far, what they agreed on.

“Hey, you’re home!” Gregory says, coming into his line of sight with a sheepish smile on his lips. “I was just about to drive John home, but I didn’t want to leave Blackbeard alone and Sherlock is having a hard time trying to decide--”

“This isn’t what we agreed on,” Mycroft interrupts as he attempts to fend of the giant dog, that’s standing on its hind paws, attempting to lick Mycroft’s face in greeting.

“Ah, yes, that. Well, you see, I went to the shelter, asked around for a friendly fellow, good with kids and it turns out NewfoundlandS are terribly good with children. And he’s named Blackbeard, so I thought it was really a sign from above and well… here we are! Isn’t he the cutest?”

Mycroft throws him an unimpressed look and his fake fiancé smiles charmingly, the kind of smile that usually makes Mycroft go weak on his knees and agree to practically anything, but this--

“Blackbeard, down!” Sherlock orders, finally showing up and the dog hurries to obey, barking happily once before leaving Mycroft’s side to go to Sherlock, wagging its tail happily. “Sit,” his brother orders and the dog does, still wagging its tail. “He’s already trained,” Sherlock says, turning his attention to Mycroft, his best puppy eyes already turn on him. “Can we keep him?”

Oh, bloody hell. Between his brother and his fake fiancé, they’re going to kill him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to fight off his incoming headache. “Of course we can,” he agrees finally and listens as his companions cheer, Blackbeard joining them with loud barks. “But we’re going to need to move somewhere else.”

Gregory smiles at him, having come to stand by his side and he squeezes his arm affectionately. Mycroft finds himself leaning into the touch, watching as his brother and young Mr. Watson celebrate, Blackbeard barking and jumping around them.

Mycroft makes a quick mental inventory of all the things the dog can break, his huge size not terribly compatible with living in a flat and he makes a mental note to put away anything too valuable. He does seem docile enough and the fact that he’s almost an adult already should probably help with any behaviour issues.

He turns to look at his fiancé, who’s also watching the teens with a fond look and Mycroft sighs, thinking this _love_ business is really bothersome; he suddenly understands much better why _attachments_ are so heavily discouraged in his line of work.

But there’s nothing to be done about it now, is there?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> I like big dogs. I always tell my husband that when we get a dog, we’ll get a   
>  _  
>  real  
>  _  
>  dog (meaning something big-sized at minimum, giant-sized if I can get away with it). That being said, my whole experience with dogs is limited to smallish-medium breeds (a beagle, a basset hound and a dachshund) so… well :P I don’t think I said this before, but Max was meant to be old english sheepdog.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Redbeard’s tale was sad, but I tried to keep the rest of the chapter more on a light hearted tone. There’s some angst coming, but that’s supposed to help us get to the promised happy ending so… we’ll see, I suppose ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t planning on updating to so soon, but work is super slow and I’m dying of boredom here so… I figured I’d write for a while :P  
> Enjoy!

“You got a dog? Like-- a real life breathing dog?”

Greg rolls his eyes dramatically, pouring himself more coffee. “Yes, Sally, we did. Although he’s mostly Sherlock’s, but-- yeah, I suppose.”

Sally shakes her head, taking a long sip from her coffee before continuing. “And you’re now buying a house. You’re going to do the whole house hunting thing, right?” Greg nods slowly, not certain he likes where this conversation is going. “Greg, I really  _ really  _ don’t want to have this discussion again, but have you talked to Mycroft about, you know,  _ your feelings _ ?”

Oh, good god, not this again. “Sal--”

“Greg, you behave like a couple. An actual couple, I mean,” she says, dropping her voice low, aware that they’re at the coffee break room and anyone could walk in at any given time. “All you’re missing is the kissing and the sex which is-- I mean, I know a couple who does without that too, so… I really think you need to talk.”

Greg shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Sally insists, sounding a tad desperate. “Pretending to be engaged is one thing. Acting all lovey-dovey in public is another but you’re actually building a life together, Greg. You have the kid and the dog and soon you’ll have the house and isn’t that the peek of any relationship?”

“Wow,” Greg says, taking a sip of his drink. “You need to reevaluate your vision of what being a couple is, Sal. The whole white-picket fence life isn’t the epitome of romance.”

Sally rolls her eyes dramatically. “You know what I mean. You’ve taken all the steps any regular couple actually takes and it’s clear as water there are feelings there, on both of your sides, I’m fairly certain and Greg-- why settle for a piece of fiction when you can have the real thing?”

Greg shakes his head once more. “I can’t do that, Sal. He-- There’s too much a stake here. I can’t risk fucking it up; Mycroft wouldn’t-- I can’t compromise the custody agreement.”

Sally makes a face, evidently unhappy. “But Greg, I think--”

“Maybe you’re right,” Greg interrupts. “But maybe you aren’t and I simply can not risk it. We have to go through with this charade so Mycroft can keep Sherlock’s custody and if he doesn’t feel the same-- you see the position it leaves us both, don’t you?”

Sally sighs. “And so what? You’re going to continue pretending you don't want more? That it’s not killing you being with him but not really  _ being with him _ ?” She shakes her head defeatedly. “It’s your decision, of course, but I rather think you should take the risk.”

It’s Greg’s turn to sigh and he looks away, turning to stare at the wall instead. “Weren’t you going to help Stella with an interrogation?”

Sally throws him a look, but she shrugs. “I suppose I’ll go now. Since this particular interrogatory isn’t going to lead us anywhere new, right?” she finishes her coffee, throwing the plastic cup away. “I’ll see you later.”

Greg nods, still not facing her and he feels himself relaxing when he hears her steps resonating in the hallway. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling oddly defeated.

This whole charade keeps getting more and more complicated.

And he has no idea what to do.

* * *

 

“--Something with a garden, naturally. And I’m assuming the same area will work?” A pause, but Greg doesn’t really registers it, mind far away. “Gregory?”

He blinks, turning his attention back to his companion, who is looking at him with a worried expression. “Sorry,” Greg apologises, shaking himself off his stupor. “I just-- I got distracted. You were saying?”

Mycroft frowns, unconvinced. “Are you alright? We can do this another day if you want, I just--”

“No, no,” Greg interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Whatever you want.”

Mycroft pouts. “That’s not terribly helpful,” he murmurs, turning his attention back to the list he’s writing for the real estate agent. “It’s your house too, you know?”

But it isn’t. Greg will live there for a bit, yes, but it won’t last. Mycroft, on the other hand…

“Whatever makes you happy,” he insists, squeezing his companion’s knee. “It’s not like I lived in a palace before moving in with you, you know? Also, you should have seen my first flat. There’s no getting worse than that.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, slightly amused. “Is this the flat with the defective pipping?”

Oh god. “Who told you that story? Nellie did, didn’t she? Oh, that little traitor--” Mycroft chuckles and Greg soon joins him, their shoulders bumping as they laugh. “Yes, that’s the one,” he says finally, which just prompts more laughter from both of them.

“I’m sure nothing I choose can be that bad,” Mycroft says finally, a soft smile on his lips and Greg is hard pressed not to lean forward and kiss him. It all feels so terribly natural, so terribly domestic and if he could--

He thinks of that brief kiss at his parents’ house, of how Mycroft’s lips felt against his, of how soft and pliant they were. Lately, he often finds himself imagining how it’d be like, to kiss the other man again, this time with no witnesses, no sense of foreboding in the back of his head, just enjoying the moment for what it was.

But he guesses he’ll never know, will he?

* * *

 

The house is… it just doesn’t look like the sort of place Mycroft would choose. It’s lovely, yes, quite quaint, Greg thinks, the sort of place he always imagined he’d like to live in, if he ever got around marrying and having kids. 

It reminds him a bit of the house he grew up in, just a little bigger and with the walls painted in a soft marble colour. In his parents’ house, the walls were constantly being painted, never in matching colours, because his mother changed her mind about them often enough. 

“What do you think?” Mycroft asks, looking actually nervous, as if Greg’s opinion actually mattered. Perhaps it does, inside his head, because Mycroft is nothing if not terribly considerate, but Greg isn’t staying, not for the long run and so--

“It’s lovely,” he answers, smiling and he wonders when did his hand found Mycroft’s and why are they playing the loving couple for the real estate agent? She probably doesn’t care but-- “I knew I could trust your good taste.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes fondly, as the continue following the real estate agent. The kitchen is ridiculously big, considering how little they both cook, but the agent informs them most houses have big kitchens. Greg has a brief moment in which he imagines the whole family gathered together for Christmas once more and how happy the well equipped kitchen would make his mom.

But of course, that might never come to happen.

There’s just one floor and three bedrooms. The master bedroom is a bit bigger than their current one though and the ensuite bathroom has an even bigger bathtub. The whole place however doesn’t look like taken out of a decoration magazine, unlike Mycroft’s flat: it actually looks lived in and it certainly looks like the sort of place a  _ family _ would live in.

As Mycroft starts discussing prices and payments with the agent, Greg lets his eyes wander. He imagines Sherlock and Blackbeard will have the time of their lives, playing in the big garden and the place is actually closer to John’s house, so he supposes they’ll be getting more visits from the teen. He smiles, ignoring the pang in his chest, allowing himself to fantasise about actually building a life here.

_ I’d stay forever, if you wanted me  _ he thinks, looking at Mycroft, who’s still talking to the agent.  _ I’d tell you, but what if I ruin everything? _

He can’t do that to Mycroft, he knows. He can’t jeopardize the custody agreement, he won’t put him in an uncomfortable position. 

But what if Mycroft feels the same way? What if they’re on the same page, they just don’t know it? What if he can have the real thing, instead of this piece of fiction?

But no. There’s just too much at stake for him to act selfishly. 

And yet, he can’t help to wonder.

* * *

 

“You make a cute couple.”

The sound startles Greg, who had been gazing outside the window absentmindedly. He offers the agent a small smile, not really in the mood for a talk, but not wanting to be impolite either. She’s young, terribly so, and she’s been very helpful and energetic, in that way young graduates with their first job tend to be.

“Thank you,” he says, turning to stare outside the window once more. Mycroft is in the other room, filling in a never ending pile of papers and Greg has lost track of how long they’ve been at it. Mycroft had said he didn’t need to come, since his signature wasn’t actually needed but it’s the weekend and he had nothing else to do (except going with Sally to pick yet more stuff for the wedding, but those shopping trips always leave him with a bitter taste in his mouth).

“How long have you been together?” the agent insists and Greg frowns a little, trying to remember her name. Kathy, maybe?

“Not terribly long,” Greg replies vaguely with a shrug. “It’s a little hard to tell for sure, since the transition between friends and partners was… a progressive thing, you know?” he adds, when the woman just keeps on staring at him, all wide eyed and honestly  _ curious. _

“Ah,” she replies, nodding sagely. “You’re very lucky, you know?”

Greg thinks of the ring on his finger, which he took to a pawnshop out of simple curiosity on a slow day, only to nearly faint after learning its actual worth. He thinks of the house, which Mycroft is paying in cash and of the new wardrobe, courtesy of Sherlock’s tendency to burn the things he doesn’t like.

“I suppose,” he agrees warily, not wanting to be rude but not terribly comfortable. What does she think, that he’s a gold digger?

“Oh, not that,” she says, blushing furiously, apparently just now noticing the implications of her statement. “I just meant-- I mean, I suppose money is nice, but you’ve found something much more precious with Mr. Holmes, haven’t you?” she smiles, in an absent minded way that suggests she’s daydreaming of one day finding her one true love too.

Greg smiles, all soft and perhaps a little sad, his heart constricting painfully. He has, he supposes, even if it’s one-sided. All he knows is that he wouldn’t change his time with Mycroft, not for anything at all.

Their time is limited, certainly, and with each day that passes the end comes nearer and nearer but--

It’s something precious, indeed.

* * *

 

_ Moving _ is never an easy business and Greg’s not sure he ever wants to do it again. Sherlock is outside, playing with Blackbeard and Greg can hear all the noise they make and he idly wonders how does the teen has any energy left to do anything at all.

Mycroft has collapsed next to him on the couch, facing the telly, looking just as deadly tired as Greg himself. “I’m not doing that never again,” he announces and Greg chuckles. “I had forgotten just how horrible moving somewhere else could be.”

Greg hums. “I don’t think I’ll be moving from this couch in the next… month or so.”

Mycroft chuckles, leaning closer to him seemingly on instinct, unaware of the summersaults Greg’s heart makes at the contact. “We’ll have to go to bed eventually,” he murmurs, resting his head on Greg’s shoulder. “I don’t think our backs can stand a night on the couch.”

It’s Greg’s turn to chuckle, nodding. “That’s a fair point.”

A pause follows, but it doesn’t feel like their usual comfortable silence. Greg can tell there’s something Mycroft wishes to discuss, only he’s not sure what. He tenses involuntarily, bracing himself for whatever is to come.

“I’ve been thinking,” Mycroft says finally, carefully avoiding looking at Greg, eyes trained on the telly. “There are three bedrooms here.”

The implication is clear enough and Greg can feel his stomach sinking, but he tells himself not to let it show. “Oh,” he says, because he can’t think of what else to say or do or even think, really.

“I-- We could turn one into a study?” Mycroft suggests after a beat, the tension in his own body easy to see if one’s playing close enough attention, which Greg is. He bites his lip, pondering the question, uncertain if Mycroft is saying what he thinks he’s saying or if he’s just hearing what he wants to hear.

“Yes,” he says finally, slowly, still unsure but his companion relaxes immediately, leaning against him once more.

“Good,” Mycroft says, nodding to himself.

_ Good,  _ indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> We’re getting to the happy ending, I promise, but there are still a couple of bumps in the way, because the author is too evil to make it easy for our boys :P Rest assured though, it’ll end well ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! It’s on the short-ish side but well… You’ll see :P  
> Enjoy?

The house isn’t what Mycroft would have chosen for himself, not really. It appeals to a part of him, the part that longs for a real family and a real home, but he never truly imagined he’d ever get that so had the circumstances been any different, he’d have chosen a whole different thing.

But from the moment the real estate agent had shown him the first pictures, he had known he wanted that one, if only because he had been certain Gregory would love it. It reminded him a lot of the house where his (fake) partner grew up, judging by the pictures Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade had shown him on his last visit and so he had figured the other man would like it.

And while he knows their agreement is not a long term one, he can admit to himself he’s slowly trying to change that: just small things for now, small things that won’t have Gregory running for the hills but that might make him warm up to the idea of turning their fake relationship into an actual one. 

The small liberties he has taken, all the small touches and long stares were a good first step, he thinks. And since Gregory has allowed them, he supposes it’s safe to assume he’s not completely against the idea. The house is a good next step, he thinks and since his suggestion to turn the third room into a study wasn’t completely shut down, he truly does believe they’re on the right path.

_ Patience is key,  _ he reminds himself, smiling as he watches his brother and his (fake) fiancé playing with Blackbeard in the garden.  _ Small steps,  _ he tells himself. There’s no rush, not really and he wouldn’t want to screw up now, when it seems he might actually get everything he ever wanted.

_ Slow and steady wins the race,  _ after all.

* * *

 

“Mrs. Hudson, what a…  _ pleasant  _ surprise.”

Mycroft isn’t exactly surprised Mrs. Hudson has managed to find them so soon after moving, not really. In fact, he’s a little more surprised it has taken her this long to look for them.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re happy to see me,” the woman replies airly, waving a hand dismissively. “But I just couldn’t leave Sherlock without his favorite birthday treat, could I?” she smiles innocently and Mycroft sighs, moving away to allow her into the house.

“I suppose,” he agrees. “Although it’s a little late, don’t you think?”

“Oh, hush,” the woman argues, passing him the small cake she’s carrying. “It’s never too late for cake. Besides, I was out of the country for some… business of my own.” She winks and Mycroft rolls his eyes, although a small smile comes unbidden to his lips.

He has a complicated relationship with Mrs. Hudson (and isn’t that the story of his life?). She looked after him too, when he was a small child, but unlike his brother, he didn’t truly  _ bond  _ with her. He was a lonely child, yes, but he was also entirely too serious and he had even more trouble than Sherlock opening up to anyone, so--

And there’s also the fact that he  _ abandoned  _ his little brother. He doesn’t think Mrs. Hudson really forgave him for leaving, even if she understood his reasons on some level. Not that it matters, of course, since Mycroft hasn’t forgiven himself either.

As he takes the cake to the kitchen, he can hear his little brother greeting his former nanny. Mycroft takes out plates and cups, getting everything ready for the impromptu little celebration and he smiles softly as he puts the candles on the cake.

“You know, I never got around buying that cake,” Gregory says, showing up at the kitchen, coming to stand next to Mycroft, bumping his shoulder. “I got Blackbeard and I totally forgot about the cake.”

Mycroft chuckles. “I don’t think Sherlock minded overly much,” he says, turning to face his companion, his heart skipping a beat after noticing his bright smile. “And I happen to know Mrs. Hudson’s cakes are truly masterful, so all as well.”

Gregory smiles, soft and happy and Mycroft wonders what it’d be like, if he could just lean forward and press a kiss to his companion’s lips. Something chaste and gentle, just the slightest show of affection.

He hopes he’ll learn it someday, but for today he can settle for this. He squeezes Gregory’s hand, earning himself another smile and he thinks it truly is enough.

* * *

 

“I really insists,” Mrs. Hudson is saying and Mycroft realizes he’s missed a big part of the conversation. It’s not his fault, really, he was entirely too distracted by Gregory’s tumb tracing circles over his knuckles to pay any real mind and his (fake) partner seemed to have everything under control so--

“Mrs. Hudson, there’s really no need--” Gregory says, throwing a pleading look in Mycroft’s direction and Mycroft blinks owlishly, wondering what he’s supposed to do.

“Non sense!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, waving a hand dismissively. “I do remember what being young and in love is like and I do think you need a little time on your own. Sherlock will be perfectly fine spending the rest of the weekend with me, won’t you?”

Oh. Oh. This is… unexpected.

Sherlock is considering Mrs. Hudson’s words very carefully, tapping his chin for show as he thinks. “It might be for the best,” he says finally, with a dramatic sigh. “One of them is likely to explode due the sexual tension one of these days and I certainly wouldn’t want to witness that.”

Gregory splutters, embarrassed and Mycroft blushes furiously. “Sherlock--” he begins, only to be interrupted by Mrs. Hudson.

“It’s settled then!” she exclaims happily. “Just for a couple of days, mind, but I’m sure you can make good use of the time.” She winks in Gregory’s direction, prompting a blush from him and Mycroft hides his face in his hands, more than a tad embarrassed.

As Mrs. Hudson continues chatting amicably, telling Gregory some tales of her wild youth (probably not a proper conversation to have in front of a teen like Sherlock, but his brother seems to decide he’d rather not know soon enough and so he stops listening), Mycroft tries to stop himself from imagining the sort of things he and Gregory could get up to if they had the house for themselves and were an actual couple.

He doesn’t exactly succeed.

* * *

 

“Well, what do you suggest we do?” Gregory asks, as they watch Mrs. Hudson drive away, Sherlock and Blackbeard somehow having managed to fit in her sports car. Gregory probably has questions on how did Mrs. Hudson managed to afford such car, but he’s entirely too polite to ask.

“We could go out for dinner,” Mycroft suggests, figuring a  _ romantic  _ dinner is a better idea than the others popping inside his head right now. A real recently engaged couple would probably use their new found time alone for more intimate activities, but all things considered, Mycroft thinks it’s a good choice.

Gregory hums, considering. “Sounds like a plan,” he says finally, throwing a smile in Mycroft’s direction that he finds himself soon returning.

It’s as a good idea as any, Mycroft supposes.

* * *

 

Dinner is a much pleasant affair than Mycroft expected. Since he’s never done the whole dating-thing, he had been a little nervous that his choice of restaurant would be wrong somehow, that the candle and rose on the table would be  _ too much.  _ He had worried he might be giving away too much, that Gregory would notice his intentions and would run for the hills, but it seems he didn’t overdo it.

Maybe this dating-business isn’t as complicated as he feared.

And of course, just as he’s thinking that, congratulating himself on a night gone well, things go promptly to hell.

* * *

 

 

“She’s flirting with you, you know?”

Mycroft blinks owlishly, looking up from the dessert menu. “Who?”

Gregory rolls his eyes, amused, but there’s something else reflected in them. “The waitress, silly. Haven’t you noticed?”

Mycroft frowns, considering this. The waitress has been very attentive, yes, but Mycroft has been to this particular restaurant often enough to know the service is always good. “No. She’s just being nice.”

His companion chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re really terrible at figuring out when people’s flirting with you.” He pauses, finishing his glass of wine and avoiding Mycroft’s eyes.

“She’s cute.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I’m engaged,” he argues, waving a hand dismissively. Greg’s lips curve upwards, but it looks… bitter, somehow. “And I still think you’ve got it wrong,” he continues, gesturing at the candle and the rose on the table. Surely the woman knows they’re on a date? Or is he doing this wrong? Also-- “You’re wearing my ring, so surely our waitress knows we’re together?”

Gregory’s eyes drop to said ring briefly, a sad expression on his face that’s gone so quickly that Mycroft has to wonder if he imagined it. “Have you thought about it?” Gregory asks, eyes downcast and Mycroft’s heart clenches, although he’s not sure what the other man is talking about. “About what would happen if… either of us meet someone while we’re married.”

Oh, if someone had stabbed him it would have been far less painful. Mycroft’s whole world crumbles in a minute, all his silly hopes and dreams turning to dust. 

He’s got it all wrong, it seems.

But he can’t afford to focus on that right now, of course; this whole farce has never been about his feelings and he can’t risk Gregory noticing his anguish at his casual dismissal of their whole relationship. If he still sees it as a temporal thing, a farce that will be over sooner or later…  “As I told you before, I expect nothing from you. I wouldn’t begrudge you pursuing an actual relationship, although I’d ask you to stay with me long enough so it won’t raise too many questions.”

He ignores the way his whole body seems to rebel at the idea, the way his heart is breaking into a million pieces. It’s not real, it has never been and he shouldn’t have allowed himself to entertain any thoughts of anything actually coming from it.

He notices Gregory hasn’t said a word and he finally turns to face his companion once more. His expression is hard to read-- impossible really and anxiety fills his ever pore.  _ No, you can’t lose him now!  _ a voice inside his head screams.  _ Do something! _

“Have you… Gregory, have you met--”

“No,” his companion interrupts sharply, too sharply perhaps and Mycroft can’t help to flinch back. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head, looking away. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to say something, although he’s not sure what and then he snaps it shut.

There’s nothing to say, really.

* * *

 

Mycroft is good at damage control.

He always keeps a cool head in the face of adversity; he’s always been quite proud of his ability to stay focused, no matter what else is happening, to come up with solutions even in the direst of situations, to make the hard choices that no one else would.

So he won’t allow this to break him.

Slowly, carefully, he puts every single one of his silly dreams and hopes in a storage box and shoves it to the back of his mind, telling himself over and over again what he’s always known.  _ Caring is not an advantage  _ and he’s a fool for allowing himself to  _ feel. _

But what’s done is done and now he must live with the consequences of his actions-- this is his penance for daring to believe he could ever get all he ever wanted. He’ll now be stuck in this sweet torture, in this farce of a marriage that’s going to end eventually, but that’s going to kill him everyday in the meantime.

But he’ll make his peace with that.

What else can he do, anyway?

Now is not the time for regrets, though. Now he needs to make sure his own foolishness won’t cost him more than it already has. He takes out his phone and pushes the call button, dreading every second that it takes for the other person to answer. He bits his nails nervously, an odious habit of his that only shows when he terribly nervous and he wonders when did his life become such a mess.

“Mr. Holmes,” a woman’s voice says and Mycroft feels himself tensing. “What a surprise. I must say I didn’t expect you to call anytime soon,” Mrs. Blackwood says and Mycroft forces himself to take a deep breath. This whole inheritance business has been more nerve wracking than he ever imagined and he’s beginning to wonder if this nightmare will ever be over.

“Mrs. Blackwood,” he greets the lawyer, careful to keep his tone calm and collected. “I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend, but I'm afraid I’m in desperate need of some legal advice regarding my inheritance.”

The woman hums, encouraging him to continue and Mycroft takes another deep breath, willing himself to carry on. “As you know, my parents’ will stated I needed to have settled down, in order for me to inherit. Now that the will has been executed-- that particular clause--”

“Are you asking me what would happen if you didn’t go ahead with your marriage plans?” the woman asks, all cool and detached and Mycroft closes his eyes before nodding, although he quickly realizes how foolish that is.

“Yes,” he says and the word feels impossibly heavy, incredibly  _ wrong. _

“I’d advise against it,” the lawyer replies after a bit, her tone oddly sad. “In regular circumstances, I wouldn’t think there’d be any problems, but considering your aunt’s… displeasure at how the whole thing was settled, I’d definitely advise against canceling the wedding plans.”

Mycroft bites his lip. He had suspected as much, but better safe than sorry. If there was the slightest chance of saving them of any unpleasantness… “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Blackwood and again, sorry to bother you.”

“Mr. Holmes,” the woman says, before he can hang up. “It’s totally normal to have some… doubts before the actual wedding. Do not make any rushed decisions.”

Mycroft holds back a huff. “Of course. Again, thank you Mrs. Blackwood.”

He hangs up and lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s just as he suspected then: he must carry on with this charade, even if it kills him.

Well then. Surely there are worse things that could happen to him.

It’s hard to imagine a worse situation, truth to be told, but there must be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, all our progress, undone! :P  
> So, thoughts anyone? I fear it feels a bit forced, but here’s my reasoning: as long as they don’t actually sit down and talk, misunderstandings are bound to keep happening. They’re both searching for clues about the other wanting the same thing, but they’re quite terrible at it, talking at cross purposes (or at least that’s what I’m aiming for?)  
> Anyway, let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! It’s super short and it doesn’t really help advance the plot, but while I had planned for another scene, I decided it worked better if I placed it elsewhere, so… well.  
> And since I had already writen it, I figured I’d post it regardless. Enjoy?

“I just feel like a made a mistake.”

Sally does her level best not to snap at her friend, simply rubbing her temples tiredly, reminding herself to take deep breaths. “You think?” she murmurs sulkily but after seeing Greg’s brokenhearted look she takes pity on him. Poor thing is just too oblivious for his own good. “Greg, I… I mean, I get where you were going with the whole…” she waves a hand vaguely, not sure how to describe Greg’s approach “--thing, but honestly, you couldn’t have found a worse way to do it! You might as well have said a fake relationship was all you wanted!”

“But that’s not all I want!” Greg argues and it takes every bit of Sally’s self control not to bang her head against the table in frustration. “Sal--”

“Listen,” she interrupts, raising a hand to silence her companion. “This is why Gregson never lets you do interrogations: you never know how to fish for information.” Greg makes an indignant sound and Sally allows herself a brief smirk. “But in all seriousness, this needs to stop. All this half conversations you two are having… they’ll get you nowhere. You need to sit down and _talk,_ like the couple of adults you are.”

Greg pouts, crossing his arms over his chest, reminding Sally of an annoyed toddler and she thinks there’s just no hope. “Greg, you love that man. But you need to communicate.”

“What’s the point?” Greg protests, all dramatic and Sally thinks she deserves an award for not rolling her eyes. “I’m just going to ruin everything, make our life even more miserable--”

Sally sighs, leaning back on her seat.

Good god, what did she do to deserve this?

* * *

“Boy’s problems?”

Sally looks up from the file she’s pretending to revise at the coffee break room, a sour expression on her face. “You have no idea,” she replies, earning herself a laugh from her companion.

Stella drops herself on the other chair, resting her chin over her linked hands. “Oh, do tell,” she says playfully. “I thought you had swore off men after… the _incident_ that shall not be discussed?”

Sally throws her a withering look and the older woman simply chuckles. “We agreed to forget that,” she says sulkily. “And I did swore off men, but it’s not-- it’s not a romantic issue?”

“Ah, so it’s about Greg,” Stella says, nodding wisely. “What has our terribly attractive but also incredibly silly DS has done this time?”

Sally rolls her eyes. “I still don’t understand what you saw in him.”

“You can’t deny he’s attractive,” Stella says with a shrug of her shoulders. “Objectively speaking, I mean. I know he’s like a brother to you, hence why you wouldn’t bang him. But the rest of the office?” Sally makes a face, thoroughly disgusted and Stella laughs once more. “Besides… you know what happened with Elliot. I needed a rebound and Greg was so clearly hung up on someone else… it was all kinds of perfect, don’t you agree?”

Sally takes a deep breath. “If you say so…” she murmurs sourly and Stella shakes her head, amused.

“Anyway, so what has he done this time?” Stella asks, leaning forward on her seat. “I thought that after he got himself a fiancé-- which no one saw coming, by the way-- he wouldn’t be troubling you with his sad tales of failed romance.”

Oh, doesn’t Sally wish that was the case. “He… he and the fiancé are having trouble. Sort of,” she says, figuring that’s vague enough while still being true.

Stella nods thoughtfully. “Communication problems, am I right?” Sally nods and Stella huffs. “Boy, is Greg bad at that.” Sally nods once more and the other woman chuckles. “Maybe they rushed it a bit, don’t you think?” she asks. “I mean-- I’m assuming this is the guy Greg’s been hung up since forever, right? Because if not-- well, that’s one hell of a mess.”

“He is,” Sally says. _But it’s a fake engagement,_ she doesn’t say.

“Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing for you to do, Sal. Greg’s going to need to put on his big boy pants and talk things out with the fiancé and if he doesn’t… that’s not on you.”

 _Sally knows that._ But-- “I’m over involved,” she murmurs bitterly.

“You’re a romantic at heart. Also, you’re probably missing some romance of your own,” Stella says with a smile and Sally glares some more, prompting another laugh from her companion. “Which brings me back to the reason I was looking for you.”

“Oh?”

“Do you have plans for Friday?”

Sally scoffs. “As long as no dead body shows up… no, I don’t. Are you trying to set me up with someone? Because last time you did--”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it so exactly. I mean, if I’m the person I’m setting you up with does it still count as setting you up?” she asks playfully and it takes a couple of seconds for Sally’s brain to catch up with the other woman’s words.

“You’re asking me out?” she says, because, well, she needs to be sure.

“Well, I wanted to for ages really, but I wasn’t exactly in the best place to start a new relationship and after the… _thing_ with Greg I thought maybe you wouldn’t--”

“Please let's never discuss again the lapse of judgement that lead you to date Greg,” Sally says and Stella nods, a brilliant smile on her lips. “I suppose we can give it a go,” she agrees with a sly smile and her companion nods eagerly.

 _It’s so damn simple,_ Sally thinks. All one has to do is actually talk.

Why can’t Greg manage that?

* * *

“I have a date,” Sally announces proudly and Greg looks up from his work.

“What? When? With whom?”

“A date. This Friday. With Stella.” She smiles, perhaps preening the slightest bit and Greg blinks owlishly a couple of times, processing the information.

“Oh, that’s-- that’s great! But how… umm… how did you--?”

“She asked,” Sally deadpans. “Which, you know, it’s the easier way to know for sure if someone likes you.”

Greg groans. “Can we not? Let’s-- let’s focus on you, alright?”

That’d be a nice change, Sally thinks. Then again-- “It’s not my fault I’m not as hopeless as you, Greg.”

In lieu of an answer, her companion groans.

* * *

“Why am I on babysitting duty too?” Sally asks, not bothering to look at her companion, instead watching the couple of boys playing in the garden.

“I invited you for a celebratory drink,” Greg protests. “But when you have kids… well. And Sherlock… it’s better not to leave him unsupervised for longs periods of time, trust me.”

Sally hums, watching the boys talking in soft hushed tones, Sherlock’s cheeks acquiring a pink hue. “They’re cute. All young and uncertain, fumbling their way through romance, which, you know, is perfectly understandable because they’re teens and this is like their first crush…”

“Will you stop already?” Greg says, glaring at her. “I told you already, I’ll talk to him.”

“But when?” she argues and Greg opens his mouth to answer, but Sally hurries to carry on. “And how? Because I swear to god, Greg, if you--”

“I’ll talk to him,” Greg interrupts sharply. “Let’s just… not discuss that. Not now. Do you want another beer?”

Sally rolls her eyes, watching her companion leave to fetch them another drink. She’d like to think he’s not totally hopeless, but--

Well, she worries.

* * *

“So all as well?” Sally asks, once Greg finishes the summarized version of his talk with Mycroft.

Or at least she hopes it was the summarized version.

Greg shrugs non committedly. “I mean-- yes. Things are still a bit tense, but overall-- yeah, I think we’re fine. And the wedding is still happening so… you know.”

Sally pinches the bridge of her nose.

That doesn’t sound terribly hopeful, truth to be told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, nothing much happens here, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! First of all, I’d like to thank the lovely BrynTWedge for offering to beta, although this chapter hasn’t been reviewed, so all the errors are on me ;) Also, Darenotspeakmyname has offered to translate this into german, so a million thanks to them too ;) I feel honored you’re liking my fic so!
> 
> Next, I’m a little worried of the overall…  _ vibe  _ let’s say of this particular chapter, given everything that has happened up to this point, but it’s what I envisioned very early on and I like it although I do worry it feels… inconsistent, somehow.
> 
> But I shall let you judge that yourselves, shouldn’t I?
> 
> So, without further ado. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
>  

 Ever since Greg’s ill-advised attempt of figuring out whether Mycroft wanted something real or not in a rather roundabout manner, their interactions have been… different.

Except calling them different is a bit of an understatement.

Or a huge understatement, really.

If asked though, Greg can’t exactly pinpoint _why_ they seem different. Mycroft is his usual self really, which is to say he’s quiet and reserved more often than not, but quite charming when he wants to be. He still laughs at Greg’s silly jokes and he leans into his touch, he smiles and trades barbs with him, being his usual witty self. They still have dinner together and go out for their morning run and their little croissants afterwards. They cuddle at night and play the role of the madly in love couple when in front of strangers, no hint of awkwardness in their interactions.

And yet, something is different.

Greg recalls entirely too well Mycroft’s expression when he had tried to bring up the subject of his bad timed, badly phrased question. He had hold himself very still, the muscle in his jaw jumping just the slightest bit when Greg had started to apologize ( _I didn’t mean to imply I didn’t want this or that I’m having second thoughts_ ) and the curt answer he received ( _It’s fine, Gregory, I understand. Nothing will change, everything shall carry on as it is_ ) and he had felt like there’s something missing, like they’re having two different conversations, except--

Well.

And nothing has changed, he can admit as much but it certainly feels that way. But maybe it’s just him, now painfully aware of how every little thing that happens between them is nothing but a stolen moment, all too aware of the fickle nature of their arrangement. None of this-- the house, the family, the _domesticity_ is his, will never be and while he endeavours to enjoy every second he can steal of it--

It could never possibly be enough.

 

* * *

 

“The day has come!” Sally announces grandly, dropping a bunch of files on Greg’s desk. “Are you ready for it?”

“For what?” Greg says, picking the top file and wincing. “Are these all mine?”

“They’re mine,” Stella says, appearing out of thin air and she laughs at Greg’s horrified look. “I’m very thorough with my paperwork,” she continues. “Sal offered to help.”

“See what I get for trying to be a good girlfriend?” Sally asks, expression resigned and Greg chuckles, shaking his head while Stella laughs some more.

“But that’s not important!” Stella says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just one more week to go Greg! aren’t you excited?”

Oh. _Oh._ “Really?” he says, peering at the calendar on his desk. “So soon?”

“Time flies, doesn’t it?” Stella says, all cheerful and enthusiastic, completely oblivious to the way Greg’s stomach has sinked. Sally sends an apologetic look in his direction and Greg attempts to smile, although he feels a little nauseous.

“Yes, it’s-- I’m-- happy, yes.”

Stella rolls her eyes. “Don’t go getting cold feet now, Greg. It’ll be amazing, you’ll see. After all, you’re marrying the man you love, aren’t you?”

Yes, but he’s also not doing it for the reason he’d like. “Right. It’s just… nerves, I suppose.”

Stella smiles, nodding. “Well, worry not. Everything will fine and Sally organized quite a party! It’d be a night to remember.” Yes, Greg supposes it’ll be. God, why is it so hot in here? “And we still have the stag night on Friday! That ought to be fun!”

“Hen night,” Sally corrects and Stella rolls her eyes.

“Call it what you want,” she says, smiling at her girlfriend fondly before she catches sight of the wall clock. “It’s eleven o’clock already? Come on dear, these files won’t file themselves on their own.”

Sally sighs dramatically, but picks up her stack of files. “See you later, Greg!” she says, before disappearing down the hall, following Stella, still chattering amicably among themselves and Greg sighs, staring at his calendar once more.

One more week.

God, how’s he going to survive this?

 

* * *

 

“Are you quite sure you don’t want to come along?” Greg asks, examining his reflection in front of the mirror for what feels like the millionth time. Sally and Stella are supposed to pick him up at eight and yet he can’t decide on what he’s wearing.

“You look fine,” Mycroft says, briefly looking up from the book he’s reading. “And no, thank you. You know I’m not really the party-kind.” He scrunches his nose in displeasure and Greg can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to his lips. “Staying home with a book works much better for me. And since Sherlock is staying at the Watson’s once more, I don’t even have to worry about him starting a fire or something equally dangerous.”

Greg chuckles. “We’ll if you’re sure. I’m not the party-kind either, really, but Sally insisted on a bachelor party even if she just invited her and Stella’s friends.” He shrugs, turning his attention to his reflection once more. “Celebrate my last night as a free man and all that.”

Mycroft scoffs. “You’ll still be a free man, Gregory,” he says, his eyes fixed on his book once more. “And I’ve never understood such silliness anyway. If you’re not excited about getting married, then why bother?”

_Because there’s a custody agreement at stake,_ Greg thinks, but doesn’t say, instead nodding at Mycroft’s words, even if the other man isn’t paying him any mind. He stares at his reflection once more and tries to summon the energy to fake a smile but soon finds these last few seconds have robbed him of any wish he had to go out.

God, what a mess.

“The wedding rehearsal is tomorrow,” Mycroft says, startling Greg out of his dark thoughts. “Do try not to drink too much. Being hangover will do you no favours.”

Greg throws a small playful smile in his direction. “I shall try my best.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes fondly, a small smile on his lips too. He seems about to say something else, but then the doorbell rings and Mycroft closes his book, placing it on the night table. “Come on, I walk you to the door.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Greg replies teasingly, taking Mycroft’s arm and earning himself a roll of the eyes. “Lucky me.”

He is lucky.

Or maybe not, depending on how you see it, he supposes.

 

* * *

 

“Oh god, what are you doing here?”

“It’s nice to see you too, Greggie,” Olivia says sarcastically, pulling him into a tight hug. “Sally invited us, obviously,” she continues. “After all, we’re family.”

Greg does his level best not to roll his eyes. “Well yeah, but shouldn’t Hugh and Theo be the ones coming along?”

“Oh, no brother dearest,” Theo says, ruffling his hair as he used to do when they were children and Greg swats his hand away. “Ms. Donovan was most strict about the whole _hen night-_ thing.”

Greg rolls his eyes. Yes, it sounds like something Sally would do and she probably figured having an annoyed Greg was better than dealing with a sad Greg trying to pretend he isn’t brokenhearted.

God, how did his life come to this?

“Anyway, we figured we could stay with your fiancé,” Hugh intervenes, pushing past Greg into the house, throwing an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. “He and the girls had already had some bonding time, so we figured it was our turn.”

Oh god. That’s not--

“What?!” Mycroft asks, trying his best not to look horrified, Greg suspects and yet failing miserably. Good god, this is going to be a disaster!

“Mycroft isn’t the party type, really,” Greg begins to explain, just as horrified as his fake fiancé at the prospect of leaving him with his brothers. “Besides, Sherlock--”

“Is staying over at a friend’s” Nellie interrupts, smiling. “Don’t try to fool us, Greggie.”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking he’s going to murder someone. Sally, most likely, his brothers and sisters-in-law too if they insist on being this disgustingly cheerful. “I don’t--”

“Well, come on already, we don’t want to be late!” Olivia says, grabbing him by the arm and starting to pull him towards-- _is that a limo?_ “See you later boys, take good care of Greg’s fiancé!”

“We’ll return him in one piece!” Hugh assures his wife, waving them goodbye. “In fact, we won’t even leave the house to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself!”

“Or attempts to escape!” Theo says joyfully and Greg just has enough time to see Mycroft’s terrified look before his sisters-in-law bully him into the limo.

This night just keeps getting better and better.

 

* * *

 

“I can not believe you invited my family,” Greg hisses and Sally offers him a sheepish smile.

“Well, what I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave your brothers out!” Sally hisses back, both pretending they’re not arguing, smiling whenever someone as much as looks in their general direction. “How was I supposed to know they’d chose to kidnap your fiancé instead and send their wives after you?”

Greg sighs, shaking his head. “I didn’t think they’d come at all, truth to be told.”

“Greg, this is your wedding,” Sally murmurs. “It might be fake, but they don’t know that. Besides, I thought they liked Mycroft? Why wouldn’t they come?”

Greg gestures desperately. Now that the date has finally come, now that everything seems far more _real…_

Well, he’s a little terrified, truth to be told. “I don’t know,” he murmurs dejectedly. “I just… it was an abstract thing, something far in the future and I thought… I thought… oh god Sal, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Sally opens her mouth to reply, but before she can a couple of shadows come to hover over them. “Stop standing in the corner looking all sad and dejected!” Olivia demands, pulling Greg towards the dance floor.

“We know you miss your fiancé, but at least try to enjoy yourself a little!” Nellie exclaims, dragging Sally after her and Greg tries to put on a brave face, telling himself he can survive this.

He’s managed this far, hasn’t he? What’s a little more pretending?

 

* * *

 

That fifth beer was probably a bad idea. Greg has never been a heavy drinker and he feels more than a little dizzy, so he puts the new beer Nellie has fetched for him and places it on the small table, deciding he has had enough for the night.

Or at least that’s his intention, right until the point in which Olivia stands up for a speech.

They’re all a little too drunk for this, Greg thinks, watching his sister-in-law swinging on her feet, Nellie attempting to steady her while they both giggle like school girls.

“--no, no, but that’s not what I’m saying,” Olivia says, pushing Nellie’s shoulder playfully, amused by whatever the other woman has said. “What I mean is-- is--” she pauses, taking a deep breath probably in an attempt to sober a little, but failing rather miserably. “Love is amazing. Being in love is great,” she giggles and the rest of the table claps and cheers. From the corner of his eye, Greg catches sight of Stella leaning closer to Sally, resting her head on her shoulder and he can’t help the stab of longing that he feels.

Being in love is great, yes, if that love is returned. “--marriage is serious business,” Olivia is saying and her words drag Greg’s attention back to her. “You need to be sure, because it’s a sacred-bond…”

“Liv, I think you’ve had too much drink,” Nellie says. “You’re not being terribly coherent.”

“No, no, I have a point! The point is… the point is… we’re happy you’ve found the right person, Greg,” she says, her words slightly slurred. “You’ll make each other very happy, you’ll see.” She lifts her glass, calling for everyone’s attention. “For Greg and Mycroft.”

The rest of the table erupts in cheers and well wishes and Greg picks up his abandoned beer, taking a long swing from it.

He’s way too sober for this.

 

* * *

 

It’s somewhere around 3 o’clock in the morning when Greg finally makes it home. His brothers pat his shoulder, both chuckling, a glint in their eyes that tells Greg he really doesn’t want to know what they’ve been discussing with Mycroft and they leave with their wives, the four yelling well wishes at them and making inappropriate suggestions that will provoke the neighbors’ ire if someone happened to hear.

As Greg watches them go in the rented limo, he thinks once more Sally went overboard with the whole planning, but it’s really Mycroft’s fault for giving her free reign over what he called, _the wedding account._

_Imagine that_ , Greg thinks, walking into the house. _To never again have to worry about paying the bills._

He laughs to himself, although he realizes it’s not very funny and it occurs him he’s super drunk. It’s a real miracle he’s standing all by himself, truth to told and of course as soon as he thinks it, his legs fail him and he’d have landed headfirst on the floor, if it wasn’t because he managed to grab onto one of the decorative tables Mycroft insisted on buying.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice comes from the kitchen and a few seconds later he stumbles out of it, looking a little tipsy himself. Or maybe a lot tipsy, judging by the way he can’t walk straight.

“You changed,” Greg acusses, noticing his (fake) fiancé is wearing dress trousers and a shirt, sleeves rolled up and so practically naked by Mycroft’s standards, but still wearing something more formal than what Greg left him wearing.

“I’m not a barbarian,” Mycroft slurs and it’s a real wonder they understand each other, considering the way they drag their words. “I can’t have guests over while wearing pajamas.”

Greg chuckles, absentmindedly running his hands down his partner’s arms, marvelling at the smooth creamy skin of his forearms. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs and it occurs him that’s not something he should have said, although he can’t figure out _why is that,_ exactly. “Look at all these freckles. So pretty.”

Mycroft snorts, but doesn’t pull away, eyes soft and full of _something_ as he looks at Greg. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he jokes and Greg laughs, leaning into him when his legs fail him once more. “Come on, we should get you in bed.”

Greg hums. “That’d be nice,” he murmurs, allowing Mycroft to guide him down the hall. They’re both quite drunk and so neither is quite steady on their feet, so he supposes it’s no wonder they eventually tumble down, falling into a hemp of limbs, both giggling like a couple of teens. “We’re too drunk,” Greg points out, which of course just prompts more laughter from his companion.

“Maybe we should stay here,” Mycroft suggests, half asleep already and Greg hums, leaning his forehead against his companion’s. Mycroft’s breath is warm on his cheek and are they rubbing noses? Why yes, it seems they are and that’s surprisingly nice, although Greg always thought it was awfully cliched when he saw it on films.

“Wanna kiss you,” Mycroft murmurs, his fingers ghosting over Greg’s jaw, as if not quite daring to touch and Greg makes a soft agreeing sound, before pressing their lips together. Mycroft’s lips are nice and soft and pilliant under his and a voice in the back of his head is screaming this is bad, _terrible really_ but he can’t bring himself to give a damn.

The kisses are lazy, no urgency behind them and while the angle is all wrong, considering they’re still on the floor, neither seems to mind terribly. He could spend the rest of the night like this, Greg thinks, running his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, pulling just the slightest bit and dragging a most filthy moan out of his companion which only serves to turn the kiss more heated.

“Bed?” Mycroft suggests, some time later and Greg hums, reluctant to stop kissing, the voice in the back of his head getting louder, urging him to stop, but it’s hard to think when Mycroft is kissing him like that and now they’re both on their feet, but they’re not exactly making much progress towards the bedroom, seeing they’re still kissing messily, desperate now, pulling at clothes with little regard for the fabric or the buttons.

_This is bad_ , the voice in the back of his head informs him, but for the life of him Greg can’t say why is that. The back of his knees hit the bed and he tumbles down, vaguely wondering when did they manage to get so far, his sense of time and distance seemingly having completely disappeared. For all he knows he and Mycroft have been at this for hours already or maybe it’s just been a few minutes: either way, Greg is enjoying it entirely too much to care.

He’s not sure when did they change positions either, seeing Mycroft is now beneath him, body arching in search of friction as Greg attempts to get his shirt off. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, once he finally manages, pressing his lips to the side of Mycroft’s collarbone, having the ridiculous urge to mark all the pale skin he has managed to bare.

Mycroft makes a noise, not quite agreement or disagreement, murmuring something about Greg having too many clothes on or that’s the gist of it, seeing he’s slurring his words. _He’s drunk,_ the voice inside his head reminds him but Greg is quite drunk himself and he’s failing to see what the problem is.

“I always wanted--” Mycroft murmurs between kisses, trying to get Greg’s shirt off to, “I knew you’d be--” he doesn’t seem quite capable of finishing sentences, but Greg doesn’t particularly care, not being too coherent either, bodies rubbing together now, both quite desperate and why are there still clothes involved? “You’ll take good care of me, won’t you?”

“Always,” Greg promises vehemently, pressing yet another kiss to his companion’s lips. “I love you,” he murmurs and the voice inside his head is going wild now, but it doesn’t matter, not now; nothing seems to matter in light of Mycroft’s brilliant smile and the satisfied noise he makes.

Mycroft cups his face gently, running a thumb over his jaw and Greg stays very still, the urgency of their arousal fading into the background as they stare at each other, the moment feeling terribly important, a sense of reverence surrounding them. Mycroft leans forward, kissing him once more, this time softer once again and Greg’s eyes drop close, enjoying the kiss. There’s a message here, Greg thinks, but his jumbled brain is failing to make sense of it, although he supposes it’s something he can puzzle over in the morning.

The sense of urgency has disappeared and while Greg is all too aware of his own arousal, not to mention Mycroft’s that’s still pressed against his abdomen, he suddenly feels too tired and sleepy. There’ll be time in the morning for other things, he thinks, when he’s less drunk and well rested, when the voice in the back of his head stops making a nuisance of itself.

So he kisses Mycroft one last time, before rolling onto his side, his companion smiling dreamingly at him, his own eyes dropping close to and Greg smiles, caressing Mycroft’s face with infinite gentleness.

His heart constricts, telling him there’s something not quite right but before Greg can think much of it, he falls asleep, drunkenness and tiredness finally catching up with him.

It’s all for the best, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> In my original plan, the boys hadn’t kissed up until this point. As you know, that didn’t work out but I’m happy with this end result anyway. I worry it feels a bit out of nowhere, although I tried to keep it logical-- at least it makes all the sense of the world inside my head, but no idea if it makes sense to you, my beloved readers.  
> So, anyway, let me know what you thought? Thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the newest chapter! I meant to update much sooner, but I kept getting caught up with work and so the last scene refused to get written :P
> 
> Anyway, a couple of announcements. First, thanks to BrynTWedge for continuing to beta; since they’re going in order, this chapter isn’t beta-ed yet, so there might be some mistakes ;) Also, a special thanks to Darenotspeakmyname who has just sent me the first chapter of the translation, which I have posted (since they don’t have an account of their own) and so you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604356).
> 
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!
> 
>  

 

Mycroft wakes up to a killer headache.

He keeps his eyes closed, knowing the light will only make the pain worse and tries to remember how he ended up in this situation. It’s most puzzling, really: it’s been ages since he was required to do any leg work that could possibly have him end up knocked out and there’s also the fact that he’s lying on a soft warm surface, another body wrapped around his in an entirely too familiar manner.

He opens his eyes reluctantly, peering at his surroundings. Gregory’s soft snore on his ear reminds him where he is and he blinks, processing the new information. Not knocked out then, but then why does his head feel like it’s about to be crack open in two?

Gregory’s arm around his middle tightens its grip and Mycroft’s half tempted to go back to sleep, figuring the mystery of his killing headache can wait. Besides, more sleep is probably a good way to keep the pain at bay but the thing is, Mycroft isn’t one to leave mysteries unsolved.

_ Hangover,  _ he realizes, suddenly noticing how dry his throat feels and the frankly disgusting taste of his own saliva. It seems he drank entirely too much last night, but why?

Memories start coming back, one by one. Watching Gregory getting ready for his bachelor’s party, a part of him silently wishing he’d stay with him instead. Chiding himself for his continued hope of their fake relationship turning into a real one. Trying to ignore the ridiculous stab of jealousy he felt at watching his (fake) fiancé fussing over his appearance, fighting his urge to say something foolish that’d give away his feelings. 

And then--

_ Oh, of course.  _ He had been a little terrified at the idea of being left alone with his soon-to-be brothers-in-law. He had liked them well enough when they had visited Gregory’s parents, but he had feared he’d end up doing or saying something that would give away the reality of their situation and that could only end up in disaster.

It had been quite fun, though, or so he remembers. Hugh and Theodore had started a game at some point, calling for a drink whenever Mycroft casually mentioned Gregory. As the night went on and he got drunker, Mycroft had ended up mentioning Gregory more and more, much to Hugh and Theodore’s amusement and he distantly recalls they finished one particularly nice bottle of scotch. He thinks they moved to something a bit less fancy afterwards, but he can’t remember for sure although he supposes that’d explain his terrible hangover.

_ My Gregory,  _ he kept repeating, as if he could will the words to become truth by simply repeating them often enough. Hugh and Theodore had thought it cute,  _ sweet,  _ teasing him about his undiying love for their baby brother. Mycroft distantly recalls pronouncing a particularly sappy discourse over Gregory’s many charms and why he was downright perfect, although he can’t remember the exact details.

He groans, burying his face in his pillow. He hopes his brothers-in-law will extend him the courtesy of not telling Gregory all the embarrassing things he said last night; that’d be a total disaster on so many levels! That would certainly clue the other man into the real nature of his feelings and that--

Well, he can’t have that, can he?

He gulps and then makes a face, having being reminded of the utterly awful taste on his mouth. Drinking is not something he generally enjoys and being hangover he likes it even less, so he’s avoided both ever since he finished college, but he does recall some remedies he tried on his younger days and he figures he might as well give them a try.

Besides, when Gregory wakes up, he’s likely to be just as hangover as himself and what kind of fiancé would he be if didn’t try to ease his partner’s pain?

With that thought in mind, he forces himself to abandon the warm cocoon that Gregory’s arms are and he somehow manages to get out of bed without falling head first onto the floor. His legs still feel a bit unsteady and the world is spinning, which are definitely not good things.

As he stands next to the bed, contemplating his life choices and hoping the world will stop spinning soon, something on the floor catches his attention. Mycroft frowns, staring at the piece of clothing curiously, not quite processing what he’s seeing.

It seems to him that that’s the shirt he was wearing last night, although it looks a little worse for wear now. From where he stands he can’t quite see the full damage, but it seems like it was taken in a hurry, two buttons missing, the slightest tear in one of the buttonholes. His frown deepens and he kneels down slowly, mindful of his headache and he picks up the shirt, examining it in the light coming through the window.

He looks down at his chest, puzzled by his lack of shirt and the dark purple marks scattered across his collarbone. Well, he’s still wearing his pants, which he supposes is some form of consolation, although--

He turns around slowly, coming face to face with a still deeply asleep Gregory. His (fake) fiancé is naked from the waist up too and further surveillance of the room shows that Gregory’s shirt received the same rough treatment that Mycroft’s own. Therefore it’s safe to assume they both were in a hurry to undress, but why?

The answer, of course, it’s rather simple.

_ Don’t panic,  _ Mycroft tells himself sternly, but he’s already panicking, of course.  _ Deep breaths,  _ he urges himself, looking around the room for further proof of last night activities. Since they’re both half naked, he supposes things didn’t go that far, but--

Oh god, what is he going to do now?

 

* * *

 

After drinking a glass of water and taking an ibuprofen, Mycroft is feeling marginally better.

He’s still freaking out, of course, but at least his head is not about to burst.

He paces around the living room, trying to regain his memories, scowling at what he finds. He remembers the sound of something crashing in the living room and coming to investigate, only to find Gregory clinging to one of the decorative tables for dear life. He had offered help, but being just as drunk as his companion, they had ended up tumbling down the hallway, laughing like mad men.

_ Wanna kiss you,  _ Mycroft had said and according to his memories he proceed to do just that. He doesn’t think Gregory protested but then again  _ he was quite drunk  _ and as far Mycroft can tell, it’s been a while since he was with someone, so he supposes…

It’s not like he could actually want Mycroft, of course. It’s just-- it was a drunken mistake, that’s all. He shouldn’t read too much into it and he certainly shouldn’t bring the subject up because what would that achieve? An awful lot of awkwardness, that’s what.

Then again--

_ I love you.  _ But no. That must have been a dream. Not unexpected, considering everything else that happened last night, of course his subconscious came up with an elaborate fantasy when he fell asleep; there’s simply no way--

He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus. There’s no use in getting lost in  _ what ifs’  _ scenarios. He knows for a fact Gregory doesn’t share his feelings, so whatever happened last night was prompted by heavy amounts of alcohol and sexual frustration. Nothing more and nothing less.

He rubs his breastbone absentmindedly, trying to ease the pain he feels at his heart breaking. He’s a fool and his plan is beyond foolish, but he’s way in too deep to back down now. Today they’ll have the wedding rehearsal and tomorrow… tomorrow…

The doorbell rings, startling him out of his morose thoughts. He glances at the wall clock, which informs him it’s past 11 o’clock in the morning. Mrs. Watson had said she’d be dropping Sherlock at this hour, didn’t she?

Oh god.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and heads for the door, thinking he should have taken the woman’s offer to keep Sherlock for a couple of days. But he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of her generous offer and now… now…

Well. Nothing for it now.

He opens the door, putting on his best fake smile, greeting Mrs. Watson politely. The woman arches an eyebrow at him, amused and Mycroft remembers he’s still not wearing a shirt.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

“Mrs. Watson, I… mmm… I just--”

“Oh, nevermind that,” she says, eyes alight with amusement. “Had fun last night?” she asks teasingly and Mycroft blushes to the tip of his ears, which just prompts laughter from her. Sherlock makes a despairing comment about people having no shame, but Mycroft ignores him with practiced ease.

“Thank you for bringing Sherlock home,” he says, deciding not to acknowledge her comment. “We’re very thankful for your help last night.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” the woman says, smiling brightly. “My John simply adores having Sherlock over. Give them a few years and they’ll be moving in together!”

From the corner of his eye, Mycroft catches sight of Sherlock’s light blush and he smiles to himself. “I’m sure,” he agrees. “But we appreciate your help all the same.”

Mrs. Watson waves a hand dismissively, saying her goodbyes as she goes back to her car. Mycroft turns to his brother then, knowing the smirk he’s sporting can’t possibly signal anything good and he sighs, letting him and Blackbeard in, resigned to yet more teasing.

It wouldn’t be so terrible, he thinks, if only any of this was real.

But alas… that’s just not meant to be.

 

* * *

 

“Had a lot of fun last night, then?” Sherlock asks, smiling like a madman and Mycroft rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you aware you’re sporting several love bites? You might want to cover them up if someone else shows up for an impromptu visit.”

Mycroft’s eyes drop to his own chest, finally remembering that bit of troubling information. Dead god, how did he manage to forget those? And to think he opened the door like that! Good god, what must Mrs. Watson think?

“It’s… that’s not… it’s none of your business!” he exclaims, blushing profusely, prompting laughter from his little brother. Mycroft continues fussing over the marks, feeling slightly mortified but also oddly… hurt. None of what happened last night was real and yet--

“Why are you upset?” Sherlock demands, startling him out of his depressive thoughts. His brother has come to stand in front of him, looking angry and annoyed. Next to him, Blackbeard makes a pitiful sound, sensing the tension no doubt. “What did Lestrade do?”

He’s truly angry, Mycroft realizes.  _ He’s being protective,  _ he thinks and Mycroft might tear up just the slightest bit: he’s always felt responsible for Sherlock, going to any extremes necessary to guarantee his well being and while he knows his brother loves him, this feels…  _ huge, _ somehow.

Sherlock however, not being a mind reader, does not know that’s the reason for him tearing up. “I’ll murder him!” he declares, storming down the hall in the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll murder him and no one will ever find the body!” Blackbeard barks, walking right behind Sherlock, tension in every line of his body.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaims, rushing after him, just to find his (fake) fiancé has woken up due Sherlock’s yelling and has come to investigate.

“I don’t think I can let you murder anyone kid,” Gregory jokes, smiling, leaning down to scratch Blackbeard behind the ears. “Although if there’s a good reason, I might let it pass this once.”

“You!” Sherlock exclaims, beyond enraged, pointing at Gregory with an accusatory finger. “What did you do to my brother?! Why is he upset?!” he demands to know and Gregory blinks, evidently surprised by Sherlock’s strong reaction, thrown in for a loop.

“What? I don’t-- I didn’t--”

“You did something!” Sherlock insists. “Why is he upset after sleeping with you? What did you do?!”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaims, feeling a bit desperate. Things are quickly spiralling out of control and judging by Gregory’s wide eyed expression he’s more than a bit concerned, staring at Mycroft worriedly. He pinches the bridge of his nose once more, telling himself not to lose his calm. “It’s all fine, I promise. We just… it’s fine, alright?”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, thoroughly unconvinced and Mycroft sighs, kneeling down so they’re more eye-to-eye level. “I promise you, Gregory didn’t do anything to me.”

“Then why are you upset?” his brother insists, sounding awfully young and so very scared, eyes fixed on Blackbeard who is doing his best to offer some consolation, rubbing his gigant head against Sherlock’s side. Mycroft sighs, wishing there was something he could say that’d make him feel better, but--

“It’s difficult to explain,” he says, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezing. He does not wish to have this conversation, certainly not with his little brother and even less when he’s feeling lost and vulnerable, completely uncertain of what happens now. “But it’s fine, I swear it is. Nothing’s wrong.”

Sherlock still looks far from convinced, but he nods all the same. “If you say so,” he murmurs, looking at Gregory once more, scowling. “You fix this,” he orders, before turning around on his heel and heading for his own bedroom, stomping his feet, Blackbeard following closely.

What a mess.

 

* * *

 

After Sherlock leaves, there’s a beat of silence and then Mycroft takes a deep breath, turning to face his (fake) fiancé. Gregory is staring at him with open concern and Mycroft really  _ really  _ doesn’t want to have this conversation, but--

Gregory takes a deep breath, evidently bracing himself for what’s bound to be an uncomfortable conversation. “Listen, if this is about last night--” he interrupts himself, biting his lip nervously, his eyes trailing the path of love bites scattered over Mycroft’s neck and collarbone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-- I mean, I don’t recall much but I suppose that was me?” he smiles sheepishly, embarrassed and Mycroft shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does really, but--

“I think so,” Mycroft replies with a shrug. He actually has vague recollections of that happening, but he has no clear memory of everything. “It’s no matter. You were drunk,” he considers this briefly, licking his lips nervously. “We both were very drunk.”

“Yes, that’s… umm… I’m sorry.”  _ For what?  _ Mycroft wants to ask, but of course he doesn’t. “I’m sorry I don’t… I shouldn’t have drunk as much and I certainly shouldn’t have…” he gestures widely and Mycroft’s lips curve up in a wry smile. “That was inappropriate.”

Mycroft’s hand goes to the biggest bite mark on his collarbone without prompting, pressing lightly as if to reassure himself it’s real. It doesn’t hurt, which he finds odd-- he had always assumed they would and he didn’t really understand why people would enjoy giving or receiving them but--

Gregory’s eyes have followed the movement, he notices and his companion gulps audibly. His body language is hard to read-- he seems embarrassed, yes, a little mortificated too but also… is that arousal? Or is Mycroft just seeing what he wants to see?

_ Now is not the time for this _ , he chides himself internally, dropping his hand to the side. “It’s of no concern. Let’s just… put this unfortunate matter behind us, alright? We were drunk, we weren’t thinking clearly and… anyway. We have the wedding rehearsal in a couple of hours and we can’t be late, can we?” he’s aware he sounds desperate, eager to be done with this horribly awkward conversation and Gregory watches him for a beat, looking torn, before nodding.

“Alright,” his companion agrees, sounding oddly depodent, but Mycroft quickly determines he doesn’t have the time to worry about that. Nothing has changed and everything shall carry on as planned.

Maybe they will revise what happened last night one of these days.

Although maybe not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> There’s a conversation coming, I swear! There’s some more drama coming too, but the happy ending is just 3 chapters away at most ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! It’s short, but the ending is very near so… there’s that :P  
> Enjoy!

It’s not that bad, is it?

It’s not ideal, certainly and not what Greg had been hoping for but… it’s not terrible, is it? Maybe it’s even  _ workable,  _ if one wants to be particularly optimistic. Not that Greg is terribly optimistic, not really, no matter what Sally says about his endless hope, but--

_ It’s fine,  _ he tells himself while also trying to drown himself in the shower, head right underneath the spray.  _ It’s totally fine. I mean-- it could be worse, right? _

Yes, definitely. It’s not worst case scenario and that counts for something, right? At least Mycroft hasn’t called the wedding off so… it’s not bad.

Good god, what was he thinking last night, anyway? He knew that that last beer was most unadvisable, he knew he had gone past his limit a couple of drinks back and yet--

It’s no excuse, naturally. The fact that he was drunk gave him no right to act like a reckless fool. He might not remember everything, but he remembers enough to know he acted like a total brute. Sure, Mycroft had initiated but Greg had known he was drunk and really, of the two of them he should have been the one showing more restrain, if only because he has more experience with these matters. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get distracted by the softness of Mycroft’s lips or how well their bodies seemed to fit together. He should have--

And then those marks! Good god, is he fifteen? Hickeys are something foolish teens do, not fully grown up men, certainly not to that extent! He had expected some anger, truth to be told:  _ marking  _ Mycroft like that, especially knowing how  _ particular  _ he’s about his appearance… the real wonder is that the other man didn’t throw him out of his house right there and then.

And to make matters worse… not only did he practically jumped his companion’s bones last night with very little prompting, he-- he-- 

_ I love you.  _ Greg curses, slamming his hands against the wall, ignoring the sting that causes. His memories don’t offer much regarding what happened afterwards, but he can imagine it well enough: Mycroft must have been surprised at the very least, perhaps a tad horrified. Maybe that’s what stopped them from going any further. Maybe that’s what stopped them both from making an even bigger mistake, in which case… well, then it’s not that terrible then, is it?

Does Mycroft remember that little bit? Seems unlikely. He’s a decent fellow, he wouldn’t have asked Greg to go through with this whole charade knowing there are actual feelings involved, not without trying to talk things out first at the very least. But Mycroft had been quite dismissive of the whole affair and so Greg thinks there’s a very good chance he simply doesn’t remember.

At this point though, he doesn’t know if that’s a relief or not.

* * *

 

The wedding venue is…  _ something _ .

Greg doesn’t even want to ask how much this whole thing costed (not that Mycroft would tell him if he asked, but he thinks Sally might be inclined to do so if only to watch his horrified look). It’s beyond lavish, everything looking entirely too fancy and expensive and it’s ridiculous really.

“You’re marrying well, Greggie,” Hugh tells him, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Who would have thought that out of the three of us you’d be the one to, huh?”

Theo hums, looking thoroughly amused. “My money was always on Hugh,” he says with an easy smile. “He’s prettier than both of us, Greggie.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Shut it. I’m not marrying him for his money.”

“No, you’re marrying him because  _ you’re in love, _ ” Hugh singsongs, smile wide and amused. “God, you should have heard the things your fiancé said about you last night. I was worried he’d end up sharing something we definitely didn’t want to know, but he kept it very sweet, truth to be told.”

“ _ Sickeningly sweet,” _ Theo agrees. “I didn’t think there could be so many metaphors to describe your eyes. They’re brown, period.” Hugh laughs, nodding along. Greg tries to keep his blush under control, even if he knows it’s a lost case.

“That’s also the reason why we’re so terribly hangover,” Hugh tells him, leaning in conspiratorially. “We made a game, you see. Everytime he mentioned you, we had to take a drink. We finished his nice scotch and something that wasn’t that nice.” Theo nods, expression deadly serious. “The real wonder is no one got alcohol poisoning.”

Greg rolls his eyes, but he’s considering his brothers’ words. They’ve always had a tendency to exaggerate of course, but maybe-- maybe--

It seems stupid, to keep on hoping when he’s seen so much evidence of Mycroft not actually liking him back. But then again… maybe…

“Alright boys, go to your places!” Sally exclaims, appearing out of thin air, hands on her hips. “Time to get this party started!”

“God, please don’t yell,” Theo murmurs, holding his head and Greg has flinched a little too. “Didn’t you went to the party last night too? How are you feeling well enough to yell?”

“High alcohol tolerance,” Sally replies casually. “You don’t want to know,” she adds at Greg’s raised eyebrow, smirking a little. “Now, are you ready Greg?”

Greg takes a deep breath before nodding somberly.

As ready as he’ll ever be, he supposes.

* * *

 

Sherlock keeps throwing him dirty looks which Greg suposses is… expected, really. He’s probably annoyed at all the teasing he has had to hear, since there’s a particular hickey right on Mycroft’s neck that no amount of concealer could hide and everyone has been teasing them both about it. Greg knows from experience no little brother wants to know what their siblings do behind closed doors, so he does understand.

There’s also the little argument he woke up to consider. Mycroft was upset, yes, but having not heard the whole conversation, he does not know what the brothers were discussing. 

_ Why is he upset after sleeping with you? What did you do?! _ Greg had panicked a little at the younger man’s words, completely certain he had screwed things up big time, but Mycroft hadn’t shown any real signs of wanting Greg gone. He didn’t want to discuss last night, that was easy to see, but other than that…

“You haven’t fixed it,” Sherlock tells him, arms crossed over his chest, expression deadly serious and a quick look around tells Greg no one is actually paying them any mind, so if the teen was to make good on his earlier promise of murder… “Why haven’t you fixed it?” he asks, tone falsely sweet and Greg gulps, suddenly realizing how scary his brother-in-law can be. 

“Your brother doesn’t want to discuss it,” Greg replies, figuring that’s an honest enough answer. “I’m not exactly sure what I did.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow and Greg shrugs hopelessly. “I do want things to work out.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, considering. “Talk to him,” he orders finally. “Mycroft would rather be shot than be forced to talk about his  _ feelings,  _ but since you’re marrying him… you should learn to talk to each other.” With that, he turns on his heel sharply, rushing away to meet John who has just arrived and is looking around curiously.

“Kid’s right, you know.”

“Good god, Sal! Where did you come from?”

Sally smirks before shrugging casually. “Don’t change the subject. Why is your fiancé sporting the biggest hickey in the history of humankind?”

“Sal, that’s-- that’s not--”

“Not subtle, Greg. No subtle.” She looks… troubled, truth to be told. “How drunk were you last night, anyway?”

“Too drunk,” he replies and Sally’s lips become a very thin line, somewhere between annoyed and concerned. “We didn’t… we just kissed. And undressed. But nothing really happened.” He makes a face, remembering their crumbled shirts with missing buttons. Not subtle indeed.

“I don’t think I want to know what’s your idea of  _ something _ happening.” Sally declares, expression unhappy. “And as the fools you both are, you haven’t talked about it, have you?”

Greg sighs, shaking his head. “We haven’t. Mycroft said… I suspect he does not wish to discuss it.”

Sally rolls her eyes. “When does he ever?” she asks no one in particular, looking heavenward before walking away, yelling at everyone to get back to their places once more since they’re starting from the top.

Greg holds back a groan.

Well, let it not be said Sally isn’t 100% committed to this wedding going without a hitch. 

* * *

 

Mycroft stands next to him, looking perfectly calm and collected, expression completely blank as he recites his vows. He looks lovely in the soft light coming through the window, the light catching on the lighter strands of his hair, making it look redish. The hickey on his neck is perfectly visible by now, the concealer long gone and Greg regards the mark thoughtfully, trying to remember how he got it there.

He remembers baring Mycroft’s chest, thinking all that creamy extend of skin needed to be marked somehow. He should have been gentler, he thinks, nipping instead of downright bitting, but then again, he was terribly drunk. Did he really tell Mycroft he loved him or did he hallucinate it? He should tell him, he thinks. He should know, he  _ deserves _ to know. They should talk about what happened last night too, not simply sweep it under the rug. They should--

“Gregory?”

Greg blinks, realizing Mycroft is now staring at him, expression troubled. He’s holding his hand, Greg realizes distantly, having already slided the wedding ring into its rightful place and Greg stares down at it, watching it shine, perfectly complimenting his engagement ring.

It’s a lovely ring, he thinks. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Mycroft put a lot of thought into choosing it: something simple and yet elegant,  _ fitting  _ in a way that’s difficult to explain.

He looks up once more, staring at his partner for a beat. Mycroft looks worried now, maybe even a tad scared and Greg realizes he can’t do this. Not like this, not without-- “I’m sorry,” he whispers, pulling away and he’s distantly aware of the gasps and whispers of the crowd surrounding them. “We need to talk.”

In retrospective, he’ll think maybe he should have waited for a better place at a better time.

Then again, there’s no time like the present, is there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, this one is super short but we’re very very close to the end! I’m super excited about it, but I also never want it to end so… mixed feelings anyone? :P  
> Anyway, I hope you liked it. If you feel there are any loose ends or something that never got resolved, now’s the moment to let me know :P I sometimes forget plot points and I’ll try to fix those, although I can’t make any promises (I sometimes write plot points and then promptly forget where I was going with them)  
> Thanks for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re so close now! I hope you’ll enjoy it! ;)

_ Timing, Greg!  _ Sally thinks frustratedly. She glances around the room for what feels like the millionth time, making sure everyone looks as comfortable as they can possibly be. She’s willing to admit she might have overdone it with the rehearsals-- they’ve gone through the whole thing three times already and by now most people are suffering the effects of last night ill advised drinking, so everyone would rather be at home. And she had intended to let them go home, she really had, but--

How was she to know that Greg was about to have a meltdown in the middle of the rehearsal?

_ Better now than tomorrow at the actual wedding,  _ a voice inside her head supplies helpfully and Sally snorts. It’s true enough, she supposes, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating. She’s been telling Greg to  _ talk  _ to his fiancé since all this mess started and he chooses precisely now to actually talk?

_ Men! _ she thinks frustratedly, kicking an errant water bottle, which only succeeds on dragging attention to herself. She smiles awkwardly, pushing her hair away from her face, trying not to blush madly.

“It’ll be fine,” Stella says, appearing next to her out of thin air, rubbing her back comfortingly. “Last minute cold feet is much more common than you’d think,” she continues cheerfully, smile bright and confident, ignoring Sally’s doubtful look. “Besides, Greg is totally crazy about his fiancé. At this point I don’t think even death itself could keep them apart.”

_ If only,  _ Sally thinks, sparing a quick look in the direction Greg and Mycroft disappeared. “All my hard work will not be for nothing,” she murmurs annoyedly, prompting laughter from her girlfriend.

“Relax, Sal.” Stella smiles, looking around. “You’re a girl of expensive tastes, I see. Makes me reconsider the whole proposing-thing.” Sally glares and Stella laughs some more, shaking her head. “My savings could never pay for something this fancy.”

Sally snorts. “I’ll have Greg organize it. It’s the least he can do, really.” It occurs her that maybe this isn’t the sort of conversation they should be having, even if it’s all somewhat hypothetical. They haven’t been dating that long really, so maybe…

_ Timing!  _ she reminds herself sharply. She has other concerns right now, after all.

But it’s something to think about, definitely.

* * *

 

“I’ll murder him,” Sherlock declares, pacing around the hall. “No one will ever be able to figure out how I did it and it’ll be brilliant.”

“You’d probably have to wait a year or two, though,” John points out, making the younger teen turn to him immediately. “Think about it: if your brother’s former fiancé showed up murdered just after the failed wedding, who do you think the police would suspect of?”

Sherlock sniffs. “They’d never be able to prove it.”

John shrugs. “Maybe. I know you don’t have that much faith in the police’s skills, but suppose one gets lucky? The less obvious the connection is--”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. John offers him a smile, half teasing and half serious: they’re joking, of course, but if he was to murder someone… well, he’d definitely want John at his side. In fact, he’d want John at his side forever more, no matter what he was doing.

Let it be known that, unlike his brother, Sherlock is not an idiot who can’t see what’s right in front of him. “Marry me,” he says and John arches an eyebrow, half amused but also deadly serious.

“Is this really the time?” John asks finally and Sherlock scowls, prompting a chuckle from his companion. “Why don’t you ask again in ten years, when we’ll actually be able to marry without your guardians permission?”

“That’d be in four years,” Sherlock protests sulkily and John rolls his eyes. “I will ask again,” he adds, figuring that’s the best he can do for now. He then glances in the direction his brother and Lestrade left and he makes a face, unhappy.

“It’ll be fine,” John assures him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “As you’ve pointed out a millionth times before, only a blind man could not see how much in love they are.”

Sherlock pursues his lips. “Maybe it’d be obvious to a blind man. But can those two idiots see it?”

John chuckles once more. “One can only hope,” he says with an amused smile.

_ Indeed,  _ one can only hope.

* * *

 

“Do you happen to know what Lestrade did to my brother?” Sherlock asks, as blunt as ever and Sally startles, having been somewhat distracted, entertaining herself with thoughts of the best way to dispose of a body ( _ whose body _ remained to be seen). She arches an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from her water bottle to buy herself some time to answer.

Something which Sherlock seems to notice right away, of course. “Well?” the teen demands. “How has Lestrade managed to screw up this time?”

Sally considers the boy for a beat, throwing a look in the general direction of the changing rooms where, presumably the  _ happy  _ couple are talking. “Your brother and Greg are just having a bit of a disagreement,” she says in her best reassuring tone which isn’t terribly reassuring, truth to be told. “But they’ll figure it out, worry not.”

Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re idiots, the both of them. With all the signs, you’d think one of them would have got a freaking clue.”

Sally considers this briefly, taking another sip from her water bottle. “You know,” she says, going through the few conversation she has had with the boy inside her head, along with what Greg has told her about him.

Again, the teen huffs. “That the engagement is fake? Yes, I do. But everything else-- that’s real, alright.”

Sally taps her fingers against the table, thinking. “Why did you let Greg believe you don’t know it’s fake?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Because that’s how these things go-- the more time the couple is forced to pretend they’re together, the more they actually get together,” he replies with a shrug. “That’s how it works in the movies, anyway.”

Ah, but real life is a bit more tricky than that. Still-- “What--?”

“We’ve gone through every other cliche in the book too!” Sherlock exclaims, sounding rather desperate. “With the bedsharing and the meeting the family and kissing under the mistletoe-- Now we even have the sort-of-interrupted-wedding! I mean, what’s going to take for them to realize what’s exactly in front of his noses?”

Isn’t Sally wondering the same thing? “They’re a little tickheaded, I’m afraid,” Sally says and Sherlock scoffs once more. “Your brother feels the same way, then?”

Sherlock throws his arms up. “Duh! I’ve been trying to get him to talk to Lestrade for  _ ages  _ but of course they had to pick the bloody wedding to actually talk.”

“Language,” Sally chides and Sherlock throws her an unimpressed look. “I’m sorry, are you telling me this whole time those two idiots have been pining silently for each other, misunderstanding everything they said?”

“God, is everyone at the Yard this slow? No wonder the unsolved cases rate is so high!”

Sally ignores the jab, waving a hand dismissively. “You should have told Greg.”

“I did! Did he ever believe me? No! But I--”

“You should have told him you knew it was fake, but that your brother is actually in love with him,” Sally corrects, making a face. “Oh god, knowing them they’ll probably manage to misunderstand each other even now.” She stands up, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and starts pulling him in the direction of the changing rooms. “Come on, let’s go knock some sense on them.”

“Do you think they’ll listen?” Sherlock asks and while his tone remains petulant, Sally can hear the concern in it. Poor kid, stuck with such idiots as guardians.

“We’ll make them,” she promises darkly and Sherlock shakes his head, but follows her.

It’s high time to make those two see sense.

* * *

 

Sherlock follows after Donovan a bit reluctantly. He does not like to go to  _ grown ups  _ for help: in his experience they only complicate things unnecessarily and they’re never actually very helpful. He kinda likes Donovan though: she’s proven herself to be useful from time to time even if she was useless in actually getting Lestrade to talk to Mycroft.

He is a bit worried, truth to be told. He’s known all along about the custody agreement and he really  _ really  _ doesn’t want to go to live with aunt Elise, so this wedding  _ needs _ to happen. And if his brother gets an actual husband who loves him deeply out of it… well, then that’s fine too.

Whatever happened last night though… well. It was obvious Mycroft was upset, but Sherlock didn’t know why and he doesn’t like not knowing something. He also didn’t like that miserable look on Mycroft’s face: it reminded him too much of the look he’d sport when he and Mummy had had a  _ disagreement.  _ Only it was never an actual disagreement, was it? It usually was Mummy trying to control Mycroft’s life even more than usual and that’d lead to arguing, which lead to bargaining, which lead to all sort of unpleasant consequences.

He bites his lip. From what he’s seen, his brother is actually happy with Lestrade, but maybe he was mistaken? Maybe this whole thing is one big mistake? But everything seemed to point out-- he had thought--

_ Ugh, grown ups _ ! Why must they complicate everything?

Donovan knocks on the closed door of Lestrade’s changing room, a determined look on her face. She’ll make those two listen and Sherlock hopes they’ll manage to see sense, although at this point he’s not sure if that’d be a good thing or not. Maybe--

“Yes?” Lestrade’s voice comes from within, sounding a little breathless and Sherlock and Sally frown, sharing a concerned look.

“Is everything quite alright?” Sally asks, placing her hand on the door handle, trying it.

“Yes!” Lestrade and Mycroft cry out at the same time. “We’re perfectly fine! We’ll be out in the a bit, do not come in!”

There are sounds coming from within the room now, a soft thud and the rustling of clothes and Sherlock’s eyes go very wide with understanding. “Were they--?” he asks, a little horrified and Sally huffs.

“It figures,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes. “Alright, be done already lovebirds! You can make out at your hearts’ content once we’re done with the rehearsal!”

Sherlock makes a face, growing more horrified with each passing second, before turning around and stomping off, deciding to go looking for John.

Grown ups, really!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> The last conversation between Sally and Sherlock got written for chapter 19, but I felt there’d have been no pay off if I left it there so I saved it for later ;) I hope you enjoyed it, I know you’re waiting for the conversation, but I wanted to write this little silly chapter first ;) Next chapter won’t take horribly long, hopefully, but it’ll be on the longish side, I’m fairly certain ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! The last chapter!  
> I finished this last night, but I wanted to sleep on it, to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything important. I’ve enjoyed working on this a great deal and while it pains me to let it go, I really think that stretching it out any longer would do it no favours (although I did plan a couple of extra misunderstandings that would have upped the angst and the pining, but I was like “no, that’s pushing it”)  
> So, without further ado, I present you the last chapter. Enjoy!

Mycroft follows Gregory into the changing room, feeling in a lot of ways like a man walking death row. As his companion closes the door after him, Mycroft considers his options: he’s not above begging at this point, truth to be told, but maybe he should wait to hear what Gregory has to say, before resorting to such dramatic measures.

He sits down on one of the chairs, careful to look calm and collected, hands linked over his lap in an effort to not start fidgeting. Gregory paces the room, talking to himself in hushed tones and Mycroft takes another deep breath, before clearing his throat once.

He does not wish to talk, naturally, but he figures that at this point that barely matters. And the sooner they talk, the sooner he’ll know where they stand and whether or not he needs to panic.

Gregory turns to him then, expression a tad guilty. “That was probably an unadvisable move, wasn’t it? God! I should have waited… oh god, I’m sorry Mycroft, I didn’t--”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft interrupts because while the timing could have been better, all he really cares about is the end result. “What’s bothering you?”

Gregory chews his lip and Mycroft tells himself not to get distracted by the memories of what biting those lips felt like. Last night is still a bit blurry inside his head, but he does remember there was a lot of kissing involved, some kisses more tender than others.

“So, about last night--” Gregory begins and Mycroft holds back a groan. “Do you... umm… do you remember what I said?”

Mycroft frowns. “Are you looking for a particular answer?” he questions, leaning back on his seat. He does remember there wasn’t much talking involved, except--

_ I love you. _

But no. That didn’t happen, certainly not outside Mycroft’s treacherous fantasies, did it? 

“You do remember,” Gregory sentences and Mycroft wonders when did he get so good at reading his expressions. He’s always prided himself on his perfect blank mask and yet it seems Gregory can read him like an open book.

“I do not believe I do,” Mycroft replies after a beat. “I… I remember something, but I’m also fairly certain that never happened.” He scrunches his nose in displeasure, shaking his head. “It simply can not be.”

“And why’s that?”

Mycroft glares at nothing in particular, quickly growing annoyed. “The terms of our arrangement--”

“Mycroft--”

“I need you to marry me,” Mycroft interrupts sharply, clenching his jaw as soon as the words are out. “Nothing more and nothing less. When I asked you… you agreed to… We had an agreement!”

A tense silence follows his words and Mycroft doesn’t dare to look at his companion. The words came out harsher than he intended and while that’s the truth, it also feels…  _ wrong _ . These last few months have been so good; he’s never been happier and to reduce them to a simple arrangement… a deal of sorts…

“We did,” Gregory agrees quietly and his voice sounds weird, perhaps a tad watery and Mycroft has to look up, frowning after seeing Gregory’s expression. “And I will complete my side of the bargain. I just… I thought…” he sighs, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Feelings were never part of the equation, were they?”

Mycroft sighs, looking away. “They weren’t. And you need not to worry, I don’t… my feelings are my problem, not yours,” he murmurs softly, sadly. 

“Your… wait a minute,” Gregory says, coming to stand right in front of him, scrunching down so they’re eye to eye. “You remember what I said last night, right? Because if you do… what you’ve just said makes zero sense.”

Mycroft frowns, puzzled. “What do you think I remember?”

“Oh, good god, Mycroft, you know what I mean! Are you really going to make me say it again? Particularly considering… well, since you obviously don’t feel the same way, what’s the use…”

Oh. Oh? “Do you… did you really tell me that you loved me?”

Gregory groans, standing up abruptly and covering his face with his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Which is why… I mean, I understand if you don’t feel the same way, that was never part of our deal but I thought… I hoped…”

Mycroft stands up, even though he feels like he’s being crushed by the weight of the revelation. Is it true, can it be true? Is this really happening? “You love me?” he repeats, breathless and full of wonder and Gregory groans once more. 

“Yes, yes, I do. Must you--” but Gregory doesn’t get to finish the phrase, since Mycroft steps into his personal space, cradling his face with all the tenderness in the world, still in awe at the revelation. “Mycroft?”

“I love you too,” he whispers, leaning down to place the lightest of kisses on his partner’s lips. Gregory makes a soft humming noise, half confusion and half approval and Mycroft chuckles, overwhelmed with emotion. “It’s been so difficult,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to his companion cheek. “To live with you, to sleep with you… having you so close and yet not close enough. I thought… I didn’t dare to believe…”

“Oh god,” Gregory says, a soft chuckle escaping him too. “Are you telling me… all this time...?”

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft agrees, still kissing him, thinking he’ll now never be able to stop. “I needed your help me desperately but I wanted… I hoped… and yet I didn’t dare to imagine…”

“Me neither,” Gregory whispers back, his arms now around Mycroft’s neck, pulling him closer. “I thought… remember I told you I was rubbish at flirting with men? I’ve been wanting to ask you out for ages and then you went ahead and proposed…”

“I’ve been so foolish… so blind…”

It’s hard to talk and kiss, Mycroft soon finds, so he abandons all attempts of the former in favour of the later, figuring there’ll be time to talk later. There’s still quite a lot to figure out but for the moment... for now they have each other and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

* * *

 

They should have done this ages ago.

The talking, Greg means, not the kissing although if they had done the talking, there certainly would have been a lot more of kissing involved and a lot less of pining and hurt and mixed messages.

All that time wasted, really!

Not that it matters, not right now. It’s hard to think anything matters in this moment, really, not with Mycroft kissing him back so enthusiastically. While the start had been tentative, slow and tender, it soon turned heated and there’s a voice in the back of Greg’s head warning him against the potential dangers of rushing things, but it’s hard to focus when everything he wanted is finally within reach.

The knock on the door then comes on a most appropriate moment really, since it stops him from tearing his partner’s clothes off him, leaving them in quite a precarious situation considering there’s still a rehearsal to attend, with their friends and family as witnesses.

“Yes?” Greg asks, breathless and Mycroft arches an eyebrow, amused. Greg glares, pecking Mycroft’s lips, earning himself a lazy grin and another kiss.

“Is everything quite alright?” Sally’s voice comes from the other side of the door and she shortly tries the door handle, which of course prompts a panicked response from the couple, who spring away from each other right away.

“Yes!” they both cry out at the same time. “We’re perfectly fine! We’ll be out in the a bit, do not come in!” Greg adds, rushing for the door and just when did they become such a tangle of limbs? He nearly falls headfirst into the ground in his attempt to rush for the door which just prompts a soft chuckle from his companion. 

He looks down at himself, noticing the state of his clothes and he blushes furiously, hurrying to rearrange his shirt tails and wondering where the hell did his suit jacket go. Mycroft just watches him, evidently amused, too self satisfied to care about what people might say, apparently.

They hear Sally huff on the other side of the door and Sherlock’s disgusted  _ ugh! _ as he stomps down the hall. After a beat, there’s the sound of Sally’s heels walking away too and they turn to look at each other once more before breaking down into giggles.

“This is most inappropriate,” Greg informs his companion, finally finding his suit jacket and putting it on once more. “People will talk.”

Mycroft hums and how does he manage to look that regal with his shirt unbuttoned and untucked? “Well, you did interrupt our wedding vows just so you could have your way with me, darling. How can you expect people not to?”

“I did not-- that was not-- Mycroft!”

His companion laughs, evidently high on oxytocin, looking quite pleased with himself. “It’s not my fault you find me so irresistible, my dear,” he argues good naturedly, standing up on unsteady legs. He chuckles as Greg glares and then proceeds to press a quick kiss against his lips. “Come on, let’s get back to the rehearsal. We can resume this…  _ conversation  _ later.”

Greg arches an eyebrow, amused. “Are you really going to walk out looking like that?” he asks. “Haven’t you had enough of people teasing you about that hickey?”

“Fair point,” Mycroft agrees, coming to stand in front of the mirror and making a face at his ruffled appearance. “You’re a total savage, Gregory Lestrade. This is italian silk, you know?”

Greg laughs, coming to stand behind his fiancé and wrapping his arms around his middle, resting his chin on his partner’s shoulder. “Didn’t you know what you were getting into when you asked me to marry you?” he replies easily, grinning from ear to ear. 

“I did not, actually,” Mycroft murmurs, gazing at him fondly. “But I’m glad I asked.”

Greg grins some more, kissing his cheek softly.

Neither knew what they were getting into, truth to be told.

But neither is complaining about the outcome, for sure.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the rehearsal passes in a bit of a blur, Mycroft trying his best to focus on what’s going on and not on what has just happened. Their short conversation still feels surreal: he’s half convinced that he’ll wake up any minute now, that he’ll find out this is nothing but an elaborate dream, a cruel trick of his overactive imagination.

He finds himself staring at Gregory every now and then, which isn’t something terribly uncommon; he always found a little hard to believe that such a perfect man could actually exist and now, to think that he actually wants to be with him…

Well. Mycroft is still processing it.

Gregory beams at him for the rest of the rehearsal, earning them both several talk downs from Ms. Donovan, who’s quickly losing her patience at their absentmindedness. Neither is paying attention really, both keep messing up their lines and missing their cues, giggling like a couple of teens and so by the time the sun sinks, Ms. Donovan abandons all attempts to get them to actually rehearse and sends everyone home.

It’s for the best really. 

“I was thinking we could do dinner?” Mycroft suggests, sliding closer to his fiancé, who smiles brightly at him.

“I am a little hungry,” Gregory agrees, eyes dropping to Mycroft’s lips and Mycroft bites his lip, ignoring the warmth spreading across his body. “Is Sherlock staying with us tonight?”

“I could ask Mrs. Hudson to babysit,” Mycroft replies, although in fact he does not know if she’d agree. If not, he assumess he could always beg Mrs. Watson, but--

“Oh, no, none of that!” Hugh exclaims, appearing out of thin air and throwing an arm around Greg’s shoulder. “Bad luck to see the groom before the wedding!”

“Indeed!” Olivia says, showing up out nowhere, backing her husband up. “Terrible luck! And this wedding has gone through enough setbacks, don’t you agree?” she adds, sending a pointed look in Gregory’s direction which makes him blush. “Better not to risk it.”

“But--” Mycroft starts protesting, just to be interrupted by Theodore.

“None of that! You obviously can’t be trusted to be left on your own, so if we want the wedding to happen as planned, you obviously need to spend the night apart or you might not show up on time!”

“You better show up on time!” Ms. Donovan exclaims, hands on her hips, a most put off expression on her face. “I did not spend so much time planning the wedding for you to ruin it because you can’t keep your hands to yourselves!”

“Well said!” Nellie agrees, grinning. “Worry not Mycroft, we’ll bring him back in one piece and right on time.” She winks and Mycroft sighs,sharing a despairing look with his fiancé.

“It seems we’ve been outnumbered, my dear,” he says with a soft smile and Gregory throws him an apologetic look. Mycroft shakes his head: it might be better this way. If nothing else, it’ll buy him some time to sort through his feelings before they take any further steps.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gregory says, leaning forward for a quick kiss. “And we’ll continue our conversation,” he adds, squeezing Mycroft’s arm meaningfully and he nods slowly. Hugh makes a comment too low for Mycroft to hear but judging by the colour Gregory’s cheeks adquire, he imagines it well enough.

He waves his fiancé goodbye, watching him go with his family, before turning to Sherlock, who’s waiting for him with a mighty frown on his face.

“I’m going to need new headphones,” Sherlock tells him, tone deadly serious, arms crossed over his chest. “I somehow doubt my current ones will work now that you and your fiancé are officially together.”

Mycroft laughs good naturedly, ruffling his brother’s hair affectionately, earning himself a scandalized  _ not you too!  _ and he laughs some more.

Today took a most unexpected turn.

But it wasn’t an unwelcome one.

 

* * *

 

“What were you thinking Greggie?! Interrupting the rehearsal like that! Nearly gave mom a heart attack, you did.”

Greg rolls his eyes,  _ if only they knew--  _ “I’m sorry mom,” he says, keeping his head down and his mother pats his cheek affectionately, shaking her head.

“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” she says with a small smile. “I raised no fool. I knew you wouldn’t run from the love of your life.” Greg smiles, thinking of how blind he was-- how is that everyone could see how madly in love he and Mycroft were, but them?

It’s like something out of those ridiculous rom coms.

“Oh, I don’t know, mom,” Theodore says, ruffling Greg’s hair. “This one is pretty thickheaded. I wouldn’t have been surprised. Horrified, yes, but not surprised.”

Greg rolls his eyes dramatically and his mother just smiles indulgently, just patting his cheek once more before announcing is time for bed. Considering everyone's a little hangover, no one protests too much and Greg follows his family to the big suite they’re renting. “Did Sally choose this too?”

“Fancy, huh?” Hugh tells him, grinning. “Your fiancé definitely has big pockets and your friend spare no expense.” Once more, Greg rolls his eyes, thinking he’ll need to have a conversation with Mycroft about all this. It’s nice, of course, but he’s not exactly comfortable and while he’s aware Mycroft can afford it all without a care in the world, he’s still not happy about it.

“Son,” his father says, startling him out of his thoughts and Greg realizes his siblings have already retreated to their respective rooms, although he can still hear them joking and generally being rambocus.

“Sorry dad,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his head. “I… I guess I’m a little distracted.”

His father smiles, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Some nerves are perfectly normal. But you’re sure of your decision, aren’t you?”

Greg can’t help the smile that comes unbidden to his lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, dad.”

His father smiles once more, nodding. “Don’t let go, son. One never lets go on real love.”

No, Greg supposes you don’t.

 

* * *

 

This is it. The big day.

Mycroft stares at his reflection for the longest time, trying to make sense of what he’s feeling. He’s feeling a lot of things, actually, so it’s hard for him to make sense of it: is he excited? Yes, he thinks so. Is he also terrified? Why, indeed! Is there a part of him that wants to run for the hills and never come back? Of course!

But there’s also the part of him that can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with the man he’s madly in love with, especially now that he knows that, wonder of wonders,  _ the feeling is mutual  _ and their marriage doesn’t have an expiration date.

It doesn’t, does it? They certainly didn’t discuss it and a mutual interest doesn’t necessarily translates onto the decision of staying together forever more, but Mycroft is hopeful. Which is funny, because just a day ago he wouldn’t even have believed Gregory actually felt  _ something  _ for him and now--

He can’t help the little giggle that escapes him. He feels young and childish, but he can’t help his excitement. He’s happy, more than happy and why shouldn’t he get to scream it to the world? Why should he have to hide it?

He remembers all too well what his mother used to tell him, the importance of not showing what he felt, of always keeping his cards close to this heart. Or even better, not to feel anything at all, not risk caring because  _ caring is not an advantage.  _ Caring is something that can (and will) be used against you.

Oh, Mummy would be so disappointed.

And yet she was the one who pushed him into this situation, wasn’t she? If she hadn’t added that ridiculous clause on the will (and that was Mummy, no doubt about it-- controlling as father was, that idea has Mummy written all over it). What she exactly expected to accomplish is hard to say-- make his life miserable, no doubt, not imagining Mycroft might find someone he’d actually want to spend his life with, someone who’d make him happy. Mummy would have never predicted Mycroft would find someone to love him and truth to be told, Mycroft himself hadn’t thought that was a real possibility and yet--

_ I love you. _

“Are you quite done with… whatever you’re doing?” Sherlock asks, standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest and Mycroft wonders how long he’s been standing there. “Do you really want to be late to your own wedding? After yesterday’s stunt do you think that’s a good idea?”

Mycroft offers his brother the smallest of smiles. “Alright. Let’s go then.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, but his smile is fond, betraying the fact that he’s happy, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

That’s fine by Mycroft, of course.

He can look happy for the both of them.

 

* * *

 

“And do you, Gregory Lestrade, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Greg blinks. They’re there already? He must have got distracted, although it’s not his fault really. He already thinks Mycroft looks stupidly handsome in his fancy suits and now he’s wearing a tux and really, how is he expected to focus on anything that’s not how handsome his soon-to-be husband looks?

“Gregory?” Mycroft frowns, squeezing his hands just the slightest bit and so bringing him back to reality in a rush.

“Yes!” he exclaims, perhaps a tad too eagerly, earning himself some chuckles from his brothers. “Yes, of course I do.”

Mycroft smiles, bright at the sun and Greg’s insides melt. God, what did he do to deserve this man?

And to think he almost ruined it all with his foolishness and his incapability to actually hold a conversation like an adult! God, to think that today could be just another chapter in a farce instead of a real wedding…! He’s not sure how he’d have endured it.

Mycroft clears his throat, gazing at him expectantly and Greg frowns, confused. His companion chuckles good naturedly, leaning down for a kiss and it occurs Greg he’s somehow missed another part of the ceremony-- a very important part, in fact.

He stands on his tiptoes, throwing his arms around his husband’s--  _ husband! _ \-- neck, pulling him close. Mycroft makes a soft approving sound, but pulls away when Greg tries to deepen the kiss, throwing him an amused look when Greg pouts. It’s probably inappropriate, he knows, but what does it matter right now?

“Later,” Mycroft promises, leaning down for another quick peck on the lips, before turning to their guests, all smiles, happiness radiating from him.

_ Later,  _ Greg thinks.

He can work with that.

 

* * *

 

“I told you this was a great idea,” Gregory murmurs, lips pressed against the shell of Mycroft’s ear. “Dancing at our wedding. So romantic.”

Mycroft hums, pulling him closer, ignoring the voice in his head that’s telling him that’s not the correct way to waltz. “You were right, of course. But you must know my reluctance came from the fact that I didn’t think I could bear to be this close to you and not do something foolish.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like this,” Mycroft says, leaning down for a kiss that Gregory hurries to return. They’ve completely missed their steps now, but that doesn’t seem terribly important. 

“Oh yes, terribly foolish,” Gregory agrees, grinning at him. “How awful of you, to kiss your husband in the middle of the dancefloor like that.”

“I now know my husband is most amenable to me kissing him,” Mycroft argues good naturedly. “But I didn’t know that until yesterday, did I? I… I wouldn’t have wanted to take advantage of the situation.”

“Always so proper,” Gregory teases, still smiling. “A perfect gentleman, this husband of mine.” He caresses Mycroft’s cheek gently and he hums, pleased. “We haven’t really discussed where we go from here, you know?”

“Is this really the time to be discussing that, though? Wouldn’t it be better to discuss it when we’re alone?” Mycroft asks, kissing his companion’s palm, nuzzling it just the slightest bit.

“There are other things I’d rather be doing when we’re alone, truth to be told,” Gregory argues teasingly. “Although maybe… maybe we should take it slow? Not jump into bed just yet?”

Mycroft pouts and Gregory laughs. “I was rather looking forward to jumping into bed with you,” he murmurs, still pouting and his partner smiles softly at him. “But maybe you’re right. I wouldn’t want you think I’m that easy.”

Gregory laughs some more, shaking his head. “You’re anything but easy, Mycroft Holmes,” he tells him, squeezing his hand. “But I suppose I should seduce you properly first. Take you out, get you flowers… all that jazz.”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “I hardly think that’s necessary seeing you’re already wearing my ring… but if it pleases you, I’m amendable,” he says with a smile. “I… You remember I don’t… you know I haven’t…?” he’s blushing and he hates his light skin right now, but really, could they be discussing a most uncomfortable subject?

“I do remember,” Gregory agrees, nodding. “Which just supports my idea that we should go slow. Plenty of things we can do before… going all the way.” He runs his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, smiling. “I’m very fond of kissing you, you know?”

“So I’ve gathered,” Mycroft says. “I trust you, Gregory. I know you’ll take good care of me.”

He’s said that before, hasn’t he? “Always,” Gregory replies earnestly, smile soft and full of affection and Mycroft smiles back.

All as well then.

 

* * *

 

“Wow. It looks like Sally truly didn’t spare any expense, did she?” Greg says, looking around the room, taking everything in. “This is ridiculous.”

“I’m given to understand it’s pretty standard, when it comes to nuptial suites,” Mycroft replies airily, dropping their bags at the entrance. “I originally protested against the idea of a nuptial suite, seeing ours was a marriage in name only… I’m just glad Ms. Donovan didn’t listen to me.”

Well, Sally always seemed to know something they didn’t. “I’m glad too. Luxurious as it is… it’s very nice. And now of course I’m beginning to regret I didn’t ask for more days off.”

Mycroft chuckles. “I’m afraid my schedule wouldn’t allow for longer vacations now,” he shrugs, sitting on the entirely too big bed. “Maybe in June.”

Greg hums, approaching him. “A proper honeymoon. Now that’s an idea,” he leans down to kiss his husband, who hums appreciatively. “I love you, have I told you already?”

“Just when you were very drunk,” Mycroft replies, smiling and Greg rolls his eyes. “It’s nice to hear it when you’re sober.”

“I’ll make sure to tell you often, then,” Greg murmurs, pressing his husband onto the bed. “Although I wouldn’t say I’m exactly sober right now. I happen to be drunk in love.”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re so terribly sappy,” he says, kissing him back, slow and tender. “I… about what you said earlier… should we discuss where we go from now on?”

Greg sighs, rolling off his partner and coming to sit on the bed too. “I suppose that’d be a good idea. Avoid any further misunderstandings and whatnot.”

Mycroft smiles, sitting up too. “I want us to work, Gregory. I want to have a real relationship with you. And maybe marriage… maybe that wouldn’t have been the most advisable step just yet, but given the circumstances… we can make it work, right?”

Greg smiles, running a finger down Mycroft’s jaw, enjoying the way the other man shivers at his touch. “Of course, love. I-- It might not be the done thing, but I do believe we can make it work. We… we’ve got along pretty well, haven’t we? We’ve been happy?” Mycroft nods eagerly and Greg smiles, leaning for another kiss. “Nothing needs to change, really. I mean-- we need to communicate better, certainly but other than that-- we did behave quite couple-y already, don’t you think? Granted, it was mostly for Sherlock’s sake, but--”

“What?” Mycroft interrupts, looking puzzled. “Gregory, Sherlock knew our engagement was fake.”

“No he did not,” Gregory protests, earning himself an amused look from his husband. “Did he?” Oh, that little devil! He’s so lucky Greg has a soft spot for him! “He lied to me!”

Mycroft laughs, shaking his head. “I think my brother might have had watched too many rom coms,” he says. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Greg huffs, only the slightest bit annoyed at having been fooled by a fifteen-year-old. “I suppose it doesn’t,” he agrees reluctantly. “I really can’t believe it took us so long to figure it out.”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “It usually does, in every other rom com with the exact same plot.”

Greg laughs, throwing his head back. “Well, at least we got our happy ending, did we not?”

Mycroft smiles, climbing into his lap in one smooth movement, kissing him deeply. “No, my dear,” he whispers, when they pull away for air, rubbing their noses together affectionately. “It’s a happy beginning.”

Well, he can’t argue with that logic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> As I said before, it’s been a joy to work on this story. I want to thank BrynTWedge for beta-ing and Darenotspeakmyname for the translation, it’s incredibly touching that people enjoy your story so much that they’re willing to do some extra work for it; I can never thank you guys enough for it.
> 
>  
> 
> I also want to thank everyone for reading, leaving kudos and commenting. So far, this is my most commented story (by over 80 comments nonetheless!) It’s not yet my fic with most kudos… but I think it’ll get pretty close to “Lessons in romance” and “Little lies and crazy plans”. Considering those two stories are both mystrade/johnlock centric I consider this one quite the achievement seeing it’s just mystrade centric.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this ending as much as I did. The journey was awesome and I hope the ending didn’t disappoint. If I had any talent for it, I’d have finished it with a little smut scene (or semi smutty, seeing they agreed on not doing the do) but well… I don’t so I hope you’re not disappointed :P
> 
>  
> 
> On another note, I will be participating on the Fandom Trumps Hate auction, the auction posts are not yet up, but if you’re interested on bidding on a fic from me, keep an eye on [the page](https://fandomtrumpshate.dreamwidth.org/). Remember, it’s all for a good cause!
> 
> *edit: they're open now and you can find my auction [here](https://fth2019offerings.dreamwidth.org/86759.html). 
> 
> I think I might take a short break from writing. My boss wants me to get involved in the sort of project that either makes you or breaks you and I have every intention for it to get me a promotion so… I’ll probably focus on that. And the FTH’s work, obviously. I also want to finish my WIPs, but those are proving trickier than I thought :P
> 
>  
> 
> Writing however, is my life, so I don’t think I’ll stick to those resolutions very long. I’ve also been working on a fic since last november than I haven’t posted because I worried lack of response would discourage me of writing it and I really really wanted to finish it so… it might get posted eventually. It’s already 100 pages long and I’m not half way done with it so… yeah, it might take a while.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambles. Again, thanks for reading, leaving kudos and/or commenting. You guys are the best and I love you with all my heart!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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